


Father, Brother, King

by chss



Series: The True Foe [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Sacrifice, Blood Magic, Elia Martell Lives, F/M, Lyanna Stark Lives, No Robert's Rebellion, POV Elia Martell, POV Lyanna Stark, POV Rhaegar Targaryen, Polygamy, Pre - Robert's Rebellion, R Plus L Equals J, Rhaegar Lives, Rhaegar is a decent husband, The Prince That Was Promised, is the obvious solution, the dragon has three heads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-10-26 20:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 156,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20748338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chss/pseuds/chss
Summary: Rhaegar will do whatever it takes to fulfil the prophecy and save his Seven Kingdoms. Elia will not see the realm plunged into war. Lyanna has spoken to the gods, and their demands are clear.An AU in which all gods are real and magic has never quite left the world, Rhaegar and Oberyn are friends, Elia and Lyanna are in on things, and everyone's just a bit better at communicating.





	1. 272 AC - Rhaegar

**Author's Note:**

> This basically started with a wish to write a story exploring (some of) the religions of ASOIAF and possible magical systems associated with them, so there's quite a lot of that. As a consequence, things go differently for our protagonists and the realm. Beyond the magic, the main difference to canon lies in the fact that Rhaegar is friends with Oberyn in this, and in his relationship to Elia.  
I've tried to stick to canon early on as the changes don't have much of an impact on the story, but it's not always easy. Timelines are murky and there is just a lot. Some things were changed or left out on purpose, others I probably got wrong or overlooked. 
> 
> The first part skips through the years leading up to Harrenhal, and is also about 70% tourneys, because that's most of what pre-Rebellion history seems to be.
> 
> Also, I'll hopefully change the title at some point. I'm not good at that.
> 
> Warnings: contains frequent descriptions of people cutting themselves (for the purposes of blood magic), as well as mentions/discussions of rape (because Aerys). Childbirth isn't described in complete graphic detail, but does play a major role in some chapters, including one featuring complications during birth and maternal death (it's neither Elia nor Lyanna).

**Part I: Prophecy**

_King's Landing, the 4th moon of the year 272 AC_

He flicked his quill between his fingers, ink splashing all over this desk, parchment, and tunic. Father wouldn't like it, not any more than his constantly stained hands, but Rhaegar knew that the king's attentions were directed elsewhere for now. He wouldn't pay him too much mind until he entered the lists.

And that meant that he had time to focus on what truly mattered. He glanced over his notes once more, running his hand through his hair and cursing when he realised that he now had ink on his head, too.

There were a few things he knew, from everything he'd read. First, there would be a prince that was promised, who'd be born amidst salt and smoke beneath a bleeding star. Second, this prince would deliver the world from darkness; bring the dawn. Third, this prince might be connected to the return of dragons, and the dragon must have three heads.

So far, so terribly unclear. Uncle Aemon believed that he was the prince, with the tragedy at Summerhall certainly qualifying as bringing both salt and smoke, but Rhaegar was still missing the bleeding star – though he had long decided to prepare for it should it be him after all, learning to fight just in case. It held the added benefit of pleasing Father, to a certain extent.

Even more confusing was the darkness. Was it just winter? A “long night”, so perhaps literal darkness; some kind of vanishing or weakening of the sun? That would surely be bad for crops, leading to mass starvation. He wasn't entirely sure how any prince would be able to do anything about _that_, however, so maybe this wasn't it.

And then there were the dragons – Uncle Aemon was quite certain that they were connected, and Rhaegar was inclined to agree. Not only because he'd love to have dragons back in the world, but also because it held a certain amount of sense if you looked at a few of the eastern versions of the prophecy – the Asshai'i believed in the rebirth of a so-called Azor Ahai, who wielded a sword named Lightbringer, and would wake dragons out of stone. Near every version of the myth put the prince in a connection with light and fire. Dragons were fire made flesh. If dragons were involved, then the prince had to be a Targaryen, and their sigil did show a three-headed dragon, just as there had been three conquerors.

Despite the king's best efforts, however, there were precious few Targaryens in the world at this time, most of their family having perished the night of Rhaegar's birth. He somehow doubted that his parents counted as the other two heads, though he did have an infant brother – little Aegon, who had been born prematurely and would likely not survive the year.

Rhaegar groaned, forcefully setting down his quill in another splash of ink. He'd scrawled one word onto his parchment, beneath the notes compiling the few things he knew: _sorcery._

The thought wasn't new. He'd asked Grand Maester Pycelle about what his order called the higher mysteries, only to be told that magic had gone out of this world a long time ago; that it was nothing more than a fanciful pursuit for those searching for deeper meaning outside the bounds of rationality. That men would do better to satisfy that craving by looking towards the gods, as at least there was no harm in that.

Yet, Rhaegar was fairly certain that magic had to be real, otherwise no-one would speak of the dark arts and sorcery in hushed, frightful tones. But if he couldn't find any answers to the higher mysteries (even the name was enticing) for now, then he could at least try the Seven.

“I need to go to the Great Sept”, Rhaegar told Ser Arthur when he'd left his chambers and found his friend in one of the endless corridors of the Red Keep. “To pray for the health of my brother, and good fortune in the joust”, he added for the benefit of any servants passing by.

“You do know that there is a sept right here, Your Grace”, Arthur replied, lilac eyes looking him over in amusement. “Then you might not have to wash off all the ink.”

Rhaegar sighed, remembering that his silver-gold hair had to have a black smudge in it. A wash and a change of clothes later, however, he was ready to ride down into the city.

They took a servants' exit, since he did not intend to be held up by the countless lords and ladies streaming into the Red Keep. On the morrow, a tourney would be held in celebration of the ten-year anniversary of Father's rule, and the nobles had been arriving for days. Rhaegar and Ser Arthur rode through side streets in order to avoid them – not because they had any intention of not being recognised; there was no need for that. But the endless procession of lords and knights would have required them to stop to greet every single one of them.

So instead, Rhaegar and Ser Arthur waved kindly at the many smallfolk stopping in their tracks to greet them, tossing silver stags here and there. When a young boy asked if he'd sing him a song today, Rhaegar told him to come to the tourney tomorrow, when he'd be singing in celebration of Ser Arthur's victory – there was no doubt in his mind that he wasn't going to win even the squires' joust; not yet. He still had much to learn.

Finally, they reached the Great Sept of Baelor with its shining dome and crystal towers. Rhaegar dismounted and left Arthur outside, strode through the many-coloured Hall of Lamps and used the Smith's Steps to enter the serene quiet of the sept.

The space before the Warrior's altar was crowded, with many a squire and hedge knight praying for the coming day – all fighters of insufficient rank to be accommodated in the Red Keep. Remembering his earlier words about praying for young Aegon, Rhaegar spent a few moments in front of the Mother's shrine, asking that She may keep his little brother safe, against all odds (this had not worked for his last three siblings, but one could hope). Then, he moved on to his actual destination: the altar of the Crone.

The statue almost did Her justice, he thought; a wizened old lady with a lantern in hand. _I beg you, sage lady_, Rhaegar prayed, the only one on his knees before Her likeness. _Show me Your wisdom, for I am lost. There is a great truth I must uncover, and I am young, and lack all knowledge to do so. Please, my lady Crone, grant me the guidance I need._

He remained there for another moment, watching the flickering light in the Crone's lantern. The candle was about to burn out. Rhaegar stood, looking through the sept – its seven walls and seven altars, seven sets of seven steps, seven colours in its glass dome. Here, everything was in sevens, and in prophecy, it was all in threes. There had to be some significance in that, he thought.

When he turned back to the Crone, he briefly thought She had appeared before him. An old woman was standing at the statue, a burning candle in her hand. Only then did he realise that she was wearing cloth-of-silver and a crystal tiara; signs of a member of the Most Devout. She was replacing the candle in the Crone's lantern, the light catching in her headdress and throwing colourful shadows all around.

This was a sign if he'd ever seen one. “Septa”, he said, as she closed the lantern and turned towards him. “What is your name?”

She bowed. “Norella, Your Grace. How may I serve?”

“I have a few questions on matters of faith.” He sat on the steps and pointed to the spot next to him. When she slowly sat down, he realised that it might not be the best thing to do for her old bones, but by then it was too late. “I have read that everything in this sept, and in every other, is done in sevens. Every measurement. Does this give the building a special strength?”

“Well, Your Grace, it is the sacred number, for the Seven Who Are One, and thus the multiples of seven create one sept. I do not know much of architecture, but divine will was surely at play when this was built.”

That wasn't anything he hadn't known before. “But is there an inherent power in numbers?”, he asked. “Beyond seven and one? Is that what determines the order of the faces of God? We always begin with the Father and end with the Stranger.”

The septa thoughtfully looked through the building. A pregnant woman was praying at the feet of the Mother, a crying man sat before the Smith, and the number of tourney hopefuls before the Warrior had only grown. Then she raised her eyes up to the stained glass dome above. “Blue and red, white and yellow – or silver and gold, if you will”, she said. “Green, purple, and black. Have you ever wondered why it is these colours, Your Grace? The spectrum of our crystals provides far more, and white and black are not among them.”

“Do they correspond to the Seven?”, he asked, feeling like she was getting at something. Septa Norella nodded, looking satisfied. “Some septons of old believed that everything corresponded to the Seven”, she replied. “Numbers and colours, metals and gems and plants, and the more obvious traits and virtues. Animals too, and near everything else you could think of. Some even went as far as to suggest that these correspondences could be used in order to become closer to the seven aspects.”

Rhaegar was intrigued. Perhaps this could help him make sense of things. “Are there any writings on this?” The idea of a whole new set of books and scrolls was enticing.

“Of course”, she said, then hesitated. “However, they are some of the greatest treasures of the Faith, and restricted to the Most Devout. If Your Grace would like to study them, perhaps His High Holiness could be persuaded to grant permission to read them under supervision -”

He raised his eyebrows. “I am the heir to the Iron Throne, good septa. I do not require the High Septon's permission to do anything, nor will I submit to be _supervised_.” He needed the environment of his own rooms to study, not some side-chamber while a septon looked over his shoulder. “Of course, everything will be treated with the outmost care, and returned to the Faith in good time”, he added to soften his words.

Norella had no choice but to bow her head in deference. When Rhaegar emerged from the Great Sept an hour later, he held two large leather bags full of books and scrolls.

Regretfully, he had no immediate time to read any of them. There were lords and ladies to greet, there was a feast to attend, and the next day, a tourney to fight in.

Rhaegar did manage to unhorse two fellow squires, which was better than he'd expected. In his third joust, however, he had to go up against Oberyn Martell. At fifteen, the Dornish prince was only one year his senior, but already had a fearsome reputation. Rhaegar's lance split on his shield, while Oberyn's struck right at his breastplate, sending him tumbling to the ground.

“Better than me”, Jon Connington commented when he returned, inspecting his helmet. The dragon ornaments had taken a few dents in his fall, but beyond that, he felt fine.

His friend had fallen in his second joust. “You aimed your lance too high, Jon”, Ser Gerold said. As the Lord Commander's squires, it fell to the two of them to dress him in his armour. The more important joust; the one for the knights, was due to begin soon. “You did well, Your Grace”, he continued, “although you should have paid more mind to Prince Oberyn's posture. The way a man positions himself on his horse can tell you much about where he intends to place his lance.”

Nodding, Rhaegar decided to keep this in mind, then fastened the white cloak of the Kingsguard on Ser Gerold's shoulders. In the background, they could see Oberyn raising his arm in victory as he emerged the champion of the squires' part of the tournament.

The knights began to assemble, proud banners flying all over the tourney grounds. On the dais sat Father, watching the proceedings with little interest, and Mother next to him, this being a rare occasion where was allowed to leave Maegor's Holdfast. Lord Tywin was there, too, having organised the tournament in the king's honour, and his wife had come down from Casterly Rock, bringing her young twins.

Rhaegar had never been so thankful to be busy with his duty as a squire; otherwise, he would have had to sit with them. “Lady Joanna really is beautiful”, Jon said, having followed his gaze. “I would not blame His Grace if the rumours were true.”

Rhaegar shot him a warning look, and could see Ser Gerold do the same. Only after they'd helped the Lord Commander on his horse to parade around the lists did he say, very quietly: “You should blame him, Jon, though not openly. We know that some of it _is_ true, and his behaviour has dishonoured both the Lannisters and my lady mother.”

Chastised, Jon raised his hands. “You know I did not mean it.” They watched the knights ride around collecting favours from ladies; names and titles read out to great applause.

Rhaegar spared another look towards the dais, where all in attendance did poor work of hiding the icy atmosphere. Lady Joanna had been Mother's lady-in-waiting before she'd married the Lord Hand. At the very least, Father had behaved very inappropriately during the bedding, enraging Lord Tywin and angering the queen, who'd sent the new Lady Lannister away from court in retribution. If some of the more vicious rumours were true, then Lady Joanna had been Father's paramour before he'd become king, though Rhaegar somehow doubted that – not because he'd put it beneath Aerys, but because it seemed out of character for Lady Joanna.

“Your Grace”, he heard, ripping him out of his thoughts. Oberyn Martell stood next to him, long black hair full of sweat and a lightly bleeding scratch on his forehead, but still as impressive a figure as anyone his age could be. He was taller than him and had a shortly trimmed beard where Rhaegar could only grow sparse stubble, and was watching him with black, calculating eyes.

“My lord”, he replied. “That was well fought. I reckon you could take on some of these knights, too, if they let you.”

Oberyn smiled, maybe sincerely. “Thank you, Your Grace. I have just come to assure myself that I am in no trouble for striking a prince of the realm.”

A thin pretext for approaching him, Rhaegar thought. “Not to worry, my lord. The better man won.” He quickly introduced Oberyn and Jon, right before trumpets heralded the beginning of the joust.

“Five dragons on Ser Arthur”, Oberyn said. Rhaegar was aghast. “I cannot bet against my Kingsguard and friend.”

Oberyn shrugged. “And I will not bet against a fellow Dornishman. It appears we have no bet, then.”

“You do”, Jon cut in. “Dayne does not nearly have Lord Steffon's experience. I will spend those dragons on Dornish wine.”

Rhaegar had to exchange a look with Oberyn, both very unconvinced that the Lord of Storm's End would stand a chance against the Sword of the Morning. The first tilt proved inconclusive, but at the second, Lord Steffon was knocked to the ground.

Jon cursed. “You had the right idea of it, my lord”, Oberyn said. “I shall spend it on Dornish wine, too.”

“You would do better to buy some Arbor Gold”, Jon said. “You might learn what real wine is.”

Oberyn smirked, and Rhaegar fought the urge to roll his eyes. Jon could be so needlessly antagonistic when anyone else threatened to capture his attention.

And so, it went on. The Dornish prince seemed to have decided to follow the joust with them, which meant that he and Jon kept making bets and trading barbs whenever their knights did not require their attention.

When the first day of the tourney ended, six knights were left for tomorrow's joust, the maesters had three relatively serious injuries to tend to, and Jon found himself twenty-five dragons in debt. Rhaegar wasn't looking forward to hearing all about Prince Oberyn's worst qualities on the way back to the Red Keep.

At the feast, Father was drunk. “You disgraced our House today, son”, he told Rhaegar, slurring and spilling wine all over his plate. “Falling to that Dornish brat. You should have bested all of them.”

Rhaegar looked towards Mother, who sat there tight-lipped, gingerly picking at her mutton and clearly unwilling to get involved. “I will do better next time, Father”, he had to say.

But the king had already turned his attention elsewhere, which was arguably worse. “Tywin!”, he shouted, even though the man was only two seats away from him. “My Lord Hand. Where are your children?”

“In bed, Your Grace. They are too young for such a late hour.” Lord Lannister was seemingly at ease – but Rhaegar had been observing the man for many years, and was sure he could detect a certain tension in his shoulders. Lady Joanna's anxiety at them being called upon was even more palpable. “And my lady”, Father continued then. Her knuckles turned white around her cup. “What good fortune that your marriage has been so fruitful, resulting in two children at once.”

This wasn't bad, so far. She made to reply, but the king had other ideas. “I still remember your wedding day so well”, he said. Rhaegar contemplated if there was anything he could do to make him stop here. Perhaps he should fall off his chair. “And the bedding”, Father added.

Mother kept mechanically eating, biting into one turnip after another and trying her best to pretend that this wasn't happening. The Lannisters had both turned white, knowing just as well as Rhaegar that much worse would follow soon.

“Yes”, Aerys said, staring wistfully into the distance, “I remember every second of it. And yet, it makes me sad. Tell me, have your twins ruined those lovely teats of yours?”

Mother's knife dropped onto her plate, which the king acknowledged with a short, cruel smile. Rhaegar was overcome with an urge to hit his head against the table, while Lord Tywin abruptly stood, taking his lady's hand to pull her to her feet. “It is getting late, Your Grace”, he said in a tone that did little to hide his anger. “It is time for us to retire.”

Father laughed when they stalked off, Lady Joanna doing her best to leave with her dignity intact. “Ah, Tywin Lannister”, he said to Rhaegar. “A proud man who thinks he is better than his king. Remember that, son: you need to keep the sheep humble, or they will begin to think themselves above dragons.”

He could only nod silently, looking down at his food with a sick feeling in his stomach. And not for the first time, he vowed to himself to be a much better king than Father, when the time came.

About one torturous hour later, the king mercifully decided to retire, leaving Rhaegar free to roam the Great Hall. But instead of speaking to Arthur or Jon, he found himself in Prince Oberyn's company, not entirely sure how exactly that had happened.

“I heard His Grace has gravely offended Lord Tywin once more”, he remarked, filling Rhaegar's cup with wine – an obvious way to try to get information out of him.

“Two proud men are bound to have their disagreements”, he replied. “Though I have been told that my father is not the only one who can get a rise out of Lord Tywin.”

Oberyn grinned, balancing his chair on its hind legs with his feet on the table. “You do not mean to suggest that there is some kind of rivalry between the Lord Hand and my lady mother?”

“Half of Westeros tends to _suggest_ that.” Princess Mynara Martell was a formidable woman – the ruler of Dorne, friend to both Mother and Lady Lannister, and by all accounts Lord Tywin's worst nightmare.

“I do not know what would give them that idea”, Oberyn said, quite clearly lying. “There is no enmity between Dorne and the Westerlands. Why else would my family and I be planning a journey to Castlery Rock next year?”

“You are?” A matter of betrothals, Rhaegar was sure. Lord Tywin had a son and a daughter; Princess Mynara two boys and a girl, though he'd heard that Prince Doran was about to wed a noblewoman from Norvos.

“A great tour all along the western shores”, Oberyn explained. “Exempting the North, of course. Our Dornish blood would not do well up there.”

“I wish you a safe journey, then”, Rhaegar replied, “and good fortune in finding a bride.”

The other prince nodded in acknowledgement. “I am quite looking forward to it, though I would prefer to see Essos, like my brother. He keeps sending me letters describing the greatest wonders, and I do not only mean his betrothed.”

Rhaegar could empathise with that. “Which of the Free Cities would you like to see most, my lord? I for one am still waiting for the day my father sends me to treat with the Iron Bank, so I might finally see Braavos.” In a few years' time, perhaps.

“They say Braavos is a fair city, and I would be happy to try myself against her water dancers”, Oberyn replied. “But what would really intrigue me is to see Qohor. The gateway to the east, full of traders from all over the known world. Dothraki at the gates, goods from places as far as Yi Ti on the market square.”

“Qohor is ruled by sorcery and a dark god”, Rhaegar remarked. “Its people practice blood magic.”

Oberyn grinned once more. “You say that as if it is a bad thing, Your Grace. Would you not like to know which secrets lie beyond our worldly plane?”

He had to take a deep sip to contemplate his answer. _Of cours_e he wanted to know; this was what had been plaguing him for weeks.

Could the Dornish prince be able to help? “Secrets always hold a certain appeal”, he said. “I shall agree with you, then. Qohor. Do write to me if you are ever able to go; I am afraid my duties will not allow for it.”

“That would be a shame, Your Grace”, Oberyn said. “I have heard you described as well-read and studious. Your intellect would be of great help.”

“All the more reason to keep me informed”, he replied. “Mayhaps I would be able to help you from afar.”

“Your Grace!”, a woman cried out. Rhaegar looked up to see that it was Alerie Hightower, who had come to King's Landing to see her great-uncle at the tourney. “Will you sing for us tonight?”

Shouts of agreement went through the Great Hall. Most of the older lords and ladies had gone to bed, he realised, leaving the feast to the most noble of Westeros' squires, maids, and young knights.

“Best be warned, my lady”, Ser Arthur told her. “His Grace's singing _will_ make you cry.”

Rhaegar pretended to be reluctant for another minute before sending someone to fetch his harp. As Arthur had promised, many tears were shed (even though his own opinion of his singing as it stood now was not the highest, considering that his voice was breaking). _Jenny's Song_ always held a certain danger of getting him chocked up, too, bringing back memories of Lady Jenny, sad and kind as he remembered her from when he'd been a little boy – and of his journeys to Summerhall and the tragedy that had accompanied his birth.

_The Seasons of My Love_ raised the mood a little bit, and then Rhaegar left it to the bards. The feast went on for many hours after, full of wine and song and dance. Many a maid wanted to dance with the crown prince, of course, and he had to oblige. Out of breath, he then sat to hear Oberyn tell ribald Dornish stories, some of them so crass that even Jon couldn't keep himself from laughing along. Only when almost everyone had retired, the last flagon of wine had been emptied, and Arhur's constant reminders that Ser Gerold would expect him to be alive the next day had got through to him did Rhaegar decide to go to bed – with a spinning head, a worrying sensation of nausea, and the feeling that he'd made a new friend. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aerys' anniversary tourney did happen in canon, and is mostly remembered for his comments to Joanna and Tywin's reaction to them. We don't actually know if Oberyn was there, but there's also nothing that indicates that he wouldn't have been, seeing as it should be before his exile, and that he turned up at most pre-Rebellion tournaments.  
It's also established in canon that Rhaegar and Jon Connington served as squires together, though it's not mentioned who they were squiring for. Considering Rhaegar's status, however, I felt like the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was the most appropriate choice.
> 
> The Faith of the Seven is never shown to be magical nor real in canon, as opposed to the old gods and R'hllor. I don't really think that's fair, to be honest, and it really would've restricted what could be done within the framework of this story. Since it's basically Westeros' equivalent to Catholicism (the highly institutionalised nature; the wealth and proximity to political power; the idea of the Seven Who Are One mirroring the Trinity), I've decided that this faith's version of magic/mysticism corresponds to the Western Occult Tradition, though obviously adapted to this otherwise very different faith. So it's full of ideas about correspondences and symbols and complicated rituals, which imo is all pretty fun.


	2. 273 AC - Lyanna

_Winterfell, the 3rd moon of the year 273 AC_

“Ben!”, she called, waving towards her brother. He was hacking at a training dummy with his wooden sword, though Lyanna didn't think he'd be able to hurt anyone with his little arms. “Ben, _come_. Mother and Father will expect us to be on time, and you need to change.”

He was always so hard to convince to get ready for supper. “You too”, he said, looking her over after he'd put down his wooden sword. “You smell like horse.”

Lyanna crossed her arms. “You smell worse. Are you coming?”

He groaned in his over-the-top way and stashed away the sword. “Fine. But Ser Rodrik says that I won't get better if I don't practice.”

“You don't need to practice _now_”, she said, taking him by the hand and dragging him towards the Great Keep. “But he's right. The way you fight now, I could beat you.”

“No you couldn't!” Ben tried to stop, but she pulled him further along. “Yes I could”, she said. “I'm bigger than you. If Father would let me use a sword, I'd beat you easily.”

Ben snorted. “You're a _girl_. It doesn't matter if you're bigger, you can't win.”

Now it was Lyanna's turn to stop, looking at her brother. “If you think so”, she said, “then let's try it. Tomorrow, in the godswood, so no-one will see.”

“Alright.” Ben kept walking. “But I can't take the wooden swords. Ser Rodrik would know.”

“We'll use sticks”, she decided, and he made a face. “Sticks aren't the same as swords. See? You don't know anything.”

Lyanna huffed. He was two years younger than her; he really shouldn't act like he was so clever.

“We have very important news today”, Mother said as they were all sat at the lord's table. “Brandon is coming to visit soon.”

Bran! Lyanna smiled, and Ben made a cheering sound. “When?”, he asked.

“A few days' hence”, Father replied, taking a swig of the ale Lyanna wasn't allowed to have yet. She'd tried it once when nobody had been looking, and it had tasted ghastly. Adults seemed to enjoy it, but then they liked lots of things that mystified her.

“And will he stay then?”, Ben went on, and Lyanna shook her head. “No, stupid. He's being _fostered_ at Barrowton. That means he's not coming back for good until he's a man grown.”

“Lyanna”, Mother said in a warning tone. “Do not call your brother stupid. It is unkind.”

As soon as their parents looked down onto their plates, Ben stuck out his tongue at her. Lyanna sighed. “Why is Bran coming, then?”, she asked. “Just to visit? And will he bring horses?” She hoped so. The Rills had the best horses in the North; everyone always said that.

“He will indeed bring horses”, Father replied, much to her delight. “Lord Ryswell keeps trying to ingratiate himself in hopes of a betrothal for one of his daughters. But”, he set his cup down, “that is exactly why Brandon is coming to visit. I have come to an agreement with Lord Hoster Tully. When the time comes, Brandon will wed his daughter, the Lady Catelyn.”

Lyanna exchanged a look with Ben, both clueless. “The Tullys of Riverrun?”, she asked, remembering her lessons with Maester Walys. “Why should Bran wed a southron woman?”

“That, you will understand in time”, Mother said. “Of course, neither of you should tell him before we do, so do not blurt it out once he arrives.”

“When will they get married?” Ben was picking at a piece of bread. “And will there be a big feast? Is she nice?”

“Lady Catelyn is only ten”, Mother replied. “They will not be wed for the next few years. Of course there will be a feast, and I am sure she is lovely.”

This Catelyn was ten? Lyanna suddenly felt scared. She was _nine._ Would that mean that she'd be betrothed next year? “What about Ned?”, she asked instead. “Will he come see us soon?”

Father shook his head. “It is a much longer way from the Eyrie.”

Ben pouted in disappointment, and Lyanna could understand. Ned had left three years ago and they hadn't seen him since – she was actually quite sure that Ben barely had any memory of him at all.

She knew that as a girl, she wouldn't be fostered anywhere, though the prospect of being betrothed soon was worrying in itself. But Ben was only a year younger than Ned had been when he'd left – so would he be sent away soon, too? If he left next year and Bran would only really come back when he was six-and-ten, that would mean she'd be by herself for three years.

Lyanna sighed, not paying any more mind to the rest of the conversation. If she could at least go off to foster somewhere as well – but she couldn't. It just wasn't fair.

The next day, Ben and Lyanna were in the middle of writing lessons with Maester Walys when he suddenly stopped, looking at the hourglass. “My lady”, he said, “you must leave us now. Your lady mother is expecting you in the godswood.”

She looked up from her parchment, confused. “But I thought we were going to practice our numbers next?”

The maester smiled kindly. “Benjen and I shall. You will have a special lesson with Lady Lyarra.”

Frowning, she traded a look with Ben. This meant that they wouldn't be able to play at swords in the godswood as they'd decided on yesterday, at least not yet.

Lyanna stood and bid her goodbye from Walys, a strange feeling in her belly. Maybe Mother wished to speak with her in order to tell her that she'd been betrothed? All her fears from the night before came back, imagining how she'd be told that she needed to wed some southron lord's son. He'd be all strange, praying to the new gods and knowing nothing about snow or the old way.

When she got to the godswood, Mother was standing before the heart tree. “How were your lessons, my dear?”, she asked. “Are your letters improving?”

“The maester says so”, she replied, coming to a halt between the weirwood and the pool before it. “Am I betrothed?”, Lyanna blurted out.

Mother smiled, her grey eyes full of warmth. “No, darling, not yet. But you must understand that even if you were, you would not be wed for many years. Not until you've flowered, at the very least, and likely not for a long time after that.”

Lyarra sat on the heart tree's roots, arranging her skirts around her and bidding Lyanna do to the same. “What does flowering even mean?”, she asked. It sounded nice, like she would somehow bloom, but the tone people used when talking about it suggested something else.

“We will speak on that eventually.” Mother reached over to smooth her skirts, too. “From now on, you and I shall have our own lessons every few days. You are grown enough to learn about the gods and the old way, and Maester Walys cannot teach you any of it. You will learn from me, as I learned from my lady mother.”

“I know of the gods and the old way”, Lyanna said. “The gods are in the trees and we can talk to them, and the old way means that we respect guest right and that Father takes heads himself instead of making someone else do it.” That was what she'd been told her whole life, after all.

“That is a start”, Mother replied, “but far from all of it. As you know, we are descended from the First Men. They had their own customs and their own tongue, and their own way to write with runes. They also learned some of the magic of the children of the forest, as they learned to pray to the gods we still follow to this day.”

Lyanna gazed at the weirwood, its face making her shudder. “Maester Walys says that nobody truly knows the meaning of the runes.”

“What he means is that the maesters do not know”, Mother replied. “Just as they have their secrets, we have ours. I will teach you some of the Old Tongue, how to read the runes and use the magic they bear, how to give sacrifice to the gods, how to see signs showing the future, and how to use the plants and animals to help you.”

That sounded exciting, and much better than what she'd expected when she'd been told to come to the godswood. “The future?”, Lyanna asked. “Do you mean the greensight?”

“Perhaps, if you are blessed with it.” Mother looked out over the pond. “But there are other ways. Omens and such. Sometimes the gods will send you green dreams if they so decide, but it is not the only way.” She smiled at Lyanna. “The day before your father and I were wed, I gave sacrifice and cast runes. They showed me our union would be blessed with three boys and a girl.”

“And it was!” Lyanna was impressed. “Will you teach Ben too, when he is as old as me?”

“Your lord father will.” Mother reached into a pocket in her gown, pulling out a small leather pouch. “Bran is being taught by Lord Dustin, though I am worried that Ned might not learn the same in the south. Perhaps Lord Royce can help him.”

She opened the pouch and spilled its contents onto the ground. They were many small, white pieces of wood, symbols painted on them in red. “These were made for me by my lady mother”, Lyarra said. “Weirwood bark, painted with sap. There is great power in weirwoods even when they are dead.”

Lyanna picked up one of the runes, ran her finger along the wood. “What does it mean?”, she asked.

“That is for later. For now, you must give sacrifice, and then we will pray.” Mother handed her a dagger.

She took it, suddenly nervous. The hilt was made from bronze, engraved with runes and the Stark direwolf. The blade was unlike any Lyanna had ever seen – it seemed to be made from a kind of black glass, edges far more ragged than on any other weapon. When she touched it, she could feel that it was razor sharp.

“What shall I do with it?”, she asked, looking at Mother with doubt, but Lyarra gave a reassuring smile. “You must introduce yourself to the gods. Of course I have presented you to them, just after you were born, but now it is time you show yourself.”

“I have prayed before”, she said. The dagger felt cold in her hand.

Mother touched her cheek. “You have, but this is different. The gods need blood, dear, though not much of yours. A small cut on your hand or your arm will be enough.”

Hesitantly, Lyanna rolled back her sleeve. _The gods need blood_. “Is that why Father executes people in the godswood? For the gods?” She'd never been allowed to watch, but she knew it happened, if rarely.

“For the gods, yes. And to dispense the king's justice, of course.” Lyarra watched as she brought the dagger closer to her left arm. “Be careful, love, it is very sharp. A small scratch will be enough.”

Lyanna steeled herself, and then very lightly dragged the blade about an inch across her skin. A few drops of blood welled up, but they were tiny. After getting a reassuring look from Mother, she did it again with a little bit more force. It barely hurt, but the blood was now enough to run down her arm.

Mother took her hand and stretched it out so the blood could fall onto the heart tree's roots. Lyanna watched it sink in, it seeming like the tree was drinking it up. Then, Lyarra placed her hand on the tree's face.

Instinctively, she closed her eyes and focused on the feeling of the bark on her hand, the sticky sap running down her fingers. Mother had told her to introduce herself, so she did.

_Hello_, she said in her mind, then was embarrassed by the informality. _I greet you, old gods_, she thought instead. _I am the Lady Lyanna of House Stark, the blood of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra. I have prayed to you before. The last time I asked for a new horse because I didn't want to ride a pony any more, and now Father said that Bran would bring some from the Rills, so thank you. _That made her feel silly. _I know I shouldn't trouble you with something like that_, she added.

But then, her embarrassment went away as a strange calm came over her. Her hand felt warm where it touched the tree, almost tingling, and for a heartbeat, it felt to her as if she wasn't entirely alone in herself. Maybe – just maybe – she could hear a voice say her name. _Lyanna Stark_, it whispered somewhere in her mind. _Winterfell. Stark. Stark. Stark._

Then, the feeling went away, and Lyanna knew she could open her eyes. She saw Mother watching her intently, then took her hand away from the tree. “I think they said my name.”

“Good.” Lyarra gave her the dagger she'd put down and pointed towards the pond. “Wash this and your arm.”

Lyanna was doubtful. “Maester Walys says you should only clean a wound with drinking water.”

“And that is usually true”, Mother replied patiently. “But this is no ordinary wound, nor an ordinary pond.”

She nodded, thinking that she might at least begin to understand, and stood to take two short steps to the water. Lyanna could see her reflection in it as she crouched down, just before she disturbed the surface by dipping in the dagger. There was hardly any blood on it at all, though when she used the water to wash her arm, she could see some of it dissolve into red clouds – more visible that she would have expected in the dark pond. The water was usually cold, though now it felt as warm as the hot springs.

When she made to dry off her arm on her skirts, she noticed that the cut had already half healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The old way of the North isn't to be confused with the Old Way of the ironborn. Ned uses the term when describing certain practices (like that the man who passes the sentence etc), and it seems to basically mean adhering to First Men custom.  
First Men culture sounds a lot like old Norse culture, with runes, certain myths, the tradition of blood sacrifice, and just the association with the concept of “north”. So northern/old gods magic will be vaguely based on that, though of course the religion in itself is different, with nameless gods instead of a proper polytheist pantheon (maybe the First Men had one before they came to Westeros?).  
The whole weirwood/blood sacrifice thing is a fan theory I like because it's cool (in a sinister way), and because it's pretty undeniable that there is a connection between blood and the weirwoods, at the very least.
> 
> Cat was meant to be betrothed to Brandon at the age of 12, not 10, but it fit in a lot better here.


	3. 273 AC - Elia

_The Hightower, the 8th moon of the year 273 AC_

Oberyn hadn't been present when they'd broken their fast, but Elia found him on one of the lower terraces of the Hightower soon after. He looked tired and, judging from the way he was taking deep breaths of the sea breeze, quite nauseous.

“Spent too much time in some brothel last night, little brother?”, she asked, and he waved his hands. “It was a wine sink, not a brothel.”

She hummed, leaning against the balustrade and looking out over the sea. “If you are going to be sick, you should retch now and be done with it. We are leaving this afternoon, and being on ship will not soothe your stomach.”

Oberyn groaned. “Thank you for your concern, sweet sister. Then I take it that you will not settle for Baelor Breakwind?”

Rolling her eyes, she slapped his arm. “Not after you _ruined_ him for me with that ridiculous nickname. I spent the entire meal trying not to laugh, and that meant that I could not even look at him. I think he was quite offended.”

“He was the one who caused offence, farting before a princess of Dorne.”

Elia shook her head. “You cannot keep mocking every single one of my suitors. I will _never_ be wed that way.”

“All the better”, Oberyn murmured. “None of these lord's sons are fit to be your husband.”

“And none of the daughters are fit to be your wife?”, she asked. Her brother hadn't been overly impressed with any of the maids brought before him.

“Not so far.” He ran a hand through his hair, which she noticed was unwashed. “You really should go make yourself presentable”, Elia told him.

He snorted. “What for? So I may impress the fair maids of the Shield Islands? Neither of us is going to marry someone from a minor House. I do not know what game Mother is playing, but something is surely afoot.”

“When is it not?” She turned to look up the tower, staggering in its height. “Ser Baelor would have been a good match for me, and Lady Alerie for you. I do believe that Mother would have been content if we had been betrothed to either of the Hightowers -”

“Or if we were to choose the Lannisters”, he concluded. “Agreed. The rest is just there for contrast.” Oberyn looked up as well, but to the sky, perfectly blue with nary a cloud on the horizon. That bode well for their journey at sea, at least. “Though I heard last night that the Lady Alerie is as good as betrothed to Mace Tyrell.”

Elia turned to him in surprise. “What kind of wine sink were you in that you heard rumours of highborn betrothals?”

“It was less the place, and more the company.” He was smiling now, the kind of smile that told her that Oberyn had found a new thing or person to obsess over. He'd smiled like that when he'd first decided to begin studying poisons, and when he'd had that brief but intense affair with a Lysene magister's son, and when he'd come back from King's Landing telling her that he'd made friends with Prince Rhaegar.

“Will you tell me more?”, she asked, impatient to hear of his newest passion. Her brother's smile widened. “I met a maester last night, a man called Marwyn.”

“A maester? Did you get so drunk you accidentally wandered into the Citadel?” A more likely possibility crossed her mind. “Or did you meet a novice pretending to be a maester?”

“You should have more faith in me than that.” Oberyn had crossed his arms. “He is, without a doubt, a real maester. An archmaester, even. I had heard whisperings about him before, how he sought the wrong kind of company – thieves and whores and foreign soldiers. People say he is despised in the Citadel for travelling all throughout the east, studying”, he adopted an overly dramatic tone, “_ancient secrets_ and _vile sorceries_.”

Elia had to laugh. “So naturally, you spent half of last night searching for him.”

“Naturally”, Oberyn confirmed. “And then I found him. He is an incredibly interesting man; everything I had hoped for. He invited me to study under him.”

It never stopped to amaze Elia just how quickly her brother could make friends. But: “You are not seriously thinking about becoming a maester.” Mother would _hate _that, and so would Oberyn himself.

“Of course not.” He looked offended. “But I can still go and learn a few things, then leave before I ever say my vows. And Archmaester Marwyn...” He slowly shook his head, looking awed. “He knows so much, Elia. He has been to _Asshai._”

She didn't share his passion for forbidden knowledge, but had to admit that the man sounded intriguing. “You will need to make very clear to our parents that you have no intention of taking a maester's oath.”

“I know.” Oberyn seemed excited, now, the aftereffects of the night all but forgotten. “How much time until we leave?”

She looked to the sun, high in the sky. “A few hours. You _must_ get yourself cleaned up before that.”

“I will”, he promised. “Although I need to write to Rhaegar first. Marwyn is exactly the type of man we need.”

With that, he made to begin the long climb up towards their quarters. Elia watched her brother disappear into the tower, smiling despite herself. Ever since he'd gone to King's Landing for Aerys' anniversary tourney, he had been near obsessed with the prince, and the two wrote each other regularly – both trying to gain more insight into the world of myth and magic, the way it seemed.

No matter how that particular endeavour would turn out, a friendship with the future king was a good thing to have.

Just as they were ready to say their farewells to the Hightowers, Elia and Oberyn were called into their parents' guest chamber. Their father was down at the docks already, and their mother was standing in the middle of the room, face pale and anguished.

“What happened?”, Oberyn asked as soon as they both entered. “Is it Doran?”

Mynara shook her head. “Doran is fine. But...” She took a deep breath, and Elia was shocked to see her like this. Her first thought had been of their brother, too, and it was a relief that nothing had befallen him. 

“Lord Leyton has received two ravens, both bearing terrible news. First, Prince Aegon has died.”

That was no surprise; he had been born prematurely, and everyone had expected him to perish long before now. “It must be awful for Queen Rhaella”, Elia said. Aegon had been far from the first of her children to die an infant.

“Indeed.” Their mother, too, had lost two children before Elia had been born. “There is more, however. Joanna Lannister has died in childbirth.”

Oberyn cursed, and Elia clasped her hands before her mouth in shock. That was _terrible_. Not only would this likely mean that they would not journey on to Casterly Rock, but even worse, Lady Joanna had been a dear friend of their mother's.

She went to embrace her and found herself held tightly while Mynara tried to control her breathing. “I'm so sorry”, she murmured, her mother's hands running through her hair.

Oberyn was pacing the room. “Did the child live?”

She heard Mother swallow. “Yes. But he is a dwarf, stunted and deformed. No-one knows if he will survive infancy.” She eased her grip on Elia. “Tywin has named him Tyrion, for the old Kings of the Rock, though I am sure he despises the boy.”

“So what now?” Oberyn had sat down, looking very tired again. “Will we still go to Casterly Rock?”

Their mother let go of Elia, and sighed. “We must”, she said, and the siblings exchanged a look. It seemed she _really_ wanted one of them betrothed to a Lannister. “I will send my condolences to Lord Tywin, and we will sail on. The Shield Islands first, then Crakehall, and then”, a more determined look came over her, “the lion's den.”

_Casterly Rock, the 9th moon of the year 273 AC_

Weeks later, their visit to the Lannisters turned out to be a complete disappointment.

Lord Tywin largely ignored them during their stay, though Elia could hardly blame him for not being the most companionable of men after having just lost his lady wife. Instead, they were entertained by his brother, Ser Kevan. This mostly meant that Oberyn would spar with him and young Jaime Lannister, who (according to her brother) showed promise, even though his age made it an unfair match. Elia herself spent much time sewing and walking the gardens with Cersei and her companions, named Jeyne Farman and Melara Heatherspoon. Lord Tywin's daughter was astonishing – so young, yet so proud and, at times, insufferable. The first day they had spent time together, she had taken Elia's arm and said, just in front of the two other girls, that she was glad to finally play with someone of equal rank.

Elia thought that an unnecessary slight to the other two, who certainly came from lesser Houses, but did not need to be reminded of that (besides, Cersei was no princess). She had smiled sweetly and said that Jeyne and Melara seemed like wonderful companions, which hadn't pleased Cersei one bit.

Still, the little lady seemed anxious to impress her, as younger girls often were. She had the best horse picked out for Elia when they went riding together, would braid her hair in the styles of the Westerlands, told her the legend of Lann the Clever more times than was strictly necessary, and took her down to the lower levels of the castle to show off her late grandfather's lions – a sad sight to Elia, half-starved, caged, and constrained to darkness as they were. She even promised to show her her infamous little brother.

When Elia told him that, Oberyn was delighted. “Oh, we must take her up on that”, he said as they spoke in his room (which he hated, claiming it resembled a dungeon cell). “It would be the first interesting thing to happen during our entire stay.”

“Lord Tywin would be very displeased if he found out”, she said, sitting on an ottoman. “And Mother will want to raise the matter of betrothal soon.”

Oberyn was unimpressed. “Do you really want either of us to wed one of them? They will surely be nice to look at when they grow up, but that is the only good quality I can find in them. Jaime is terribly boring, just like the whole gods-damned Westerlands.” He was lying on his bed, playing with a dagger. “It is always Cersei this, Cersei that. She rules over him like Mother said Lady Joanna ruled over Tywin. When I told him I would go down to Lannisport to find a girl to spend the night with, he was _shocked_.” A derisive snort. “And then I could not even find any girls, because every single woman in the Westerlands is a stuck-up prude.”

Elia laughed. “Perhaps your charms have left you, brother.”

He gave her a mischievous look. “I did find a boy, that was easy enough. Still, the women here value their chastity too much.”

“Like I value mine?” Elia could not share his promiscuous ways, for better or worse.

“You do not really have to, you know.” He turned to lie on his front, now using the dagger to clean his nails. “Men do cannot _truly_ tell if they are lying with a maid or not, no matter what anyone says. And moon tea does exist.”

“The maesters say moon tea might harm my health”, she replied. Elia had always been frail, a consequence of being born too early. “Perhaps it would render me unable to have children.”

Oberyn sighed sadly. “I know. I just want you to enjoy yourself. There _are_ things you can do that will not threaten pregnancy, or you could lie with another woman. Though I would recommend you wait until we are back home.”

She tried her best not to turn red. “That is as much bed talk as I can tolerate from my brother, thank you very much.” At least he wasn't teasing her by being unnecessarily crass, this time.

“I am only trying to help.” Oberyn stared down at the blade. “But still, the famous little monster. You should really bring it up again with Cersei; it would make all of this worthwhile. Especially after we have had to hear him cry every night.”

“Alright, I will.” Elia sighed. Tyrion Lannister had been the talk of the realm ever since they'd first heard of his birth, one tale taller than the last. Some claimed he had a tail, others that he'd been born with a beard, or with claws, but definitely with an enormous head, and possibly with both male and female private parts.

In truth, she had no desire to gawk at such an unfortunate being, but perhaps it would finally get Oberyn to stop complaining.

The next day was to be their last at Casterly Rock, and Cersei and Jaime took them to their little brother's nursery. When they entered, it was exactly the kind of room one would expect for the son of a great lord, with a velvet-draped crib and a wet nurse ready to serve.

She hurriedly stood as they came in. “M'lords, m'ladies”, the woman looked around nervously, “my lord of Lannister said that no-one should come see the young Lord Tyrion -”

“Shut up”, Cersei interrupted. “He's mine, and you're just a milk cow, you can't tell me what to do.”

Oberyn and Elia exchanged a look, him not quite as used to Cersei's haughtiness as she was.

The wet nurse had paled. “But m'lady, your lord father -”

“Be quiet or I'll have my father cut your tongue out”, Cersei replied. “A cow doesn't need a tongue, only udders.”

Lowering her head, the wet nurse hurried out of the room, as Cersei strode over to the crib, beginning to undo the babe's swaddling clothes.

Oberyn followed her quickly, with Elia much more hesitant. But when she got to actually see the famous little monster, it turned out to be not much more than a slightly misshapen infant.

Despite herself, she cooed. Sure, little Tyrion had mismatched eyes, his legs were a bit too short and his head larger than one would expect, but he was not nearly as horrendous as everyone had claimed. He was just – a babe.

“That is a poor sort of monster”, Oberyn said. “Where are the claws? The beard?”

Cersei gave him a deathly glare. “He killed my mother”, she said, and reached down into the crib to grab the poor child's member (no female genitals were to be seen), twisting it hard. Elia heard Oberyn wince.

The babe began to cry, and Elia contemplated pulling Cersei away from him when Jaime said: “Leave him be, you're hurting him.” The boy – possibly her future husband – looked pained. He wasn't that bad, Elia decided.

Thankfully, Cersei let go. “It doesn't matter”, she said. “Everyone says he's like to die soon. He shouldn't even have lived this long.”

Elia thought about Prince Aegon, and her two brothers who hadn't lived any longer than him, and even herself, who everyone had expected to die as well.

She would light a candle before the Mother to pray for Tyrion's survival, she decided.

When they returned from their visit to Tyrion, their mother was briskly striding towards them, looking furious.

“Tywin Lannister is the most arrogant man I have ever met”, she told them in an angry whisper. “The _gall_.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. “I take it he refused us for his children?”

“Oh yes.” She clearly had trouble keeping her voice down. “He claimed that Cersei was destined to wed Prince Rhaegar.”

Elia blinked, trying to work out if this had been a boast or a done deal. “I hope for Rhaegar's sake that he is lying”, Oberyn said.

“Well, either way.” Mynara pulled them both closer. “I then offered you, Elia, for Jaime – and he said you could wed _Tyrion_ instead.”

That was a very obvious insult, and Elia couldn't help but feel offended. She didn't even want to marry Jaime Lannister, and yet: She was a princess of Dorne, not that much older than Jaime, far from ugly, and with not a scratch on her reputation. Surely, she wasn't _that_ bad of a match. And even if Tyrion was not the monster everyone had made out to be, he was still deformed, and much too young besides.

“I am glad we are leaving tomorrow”, their mother said. “We should not be spending any more time with people who treat us so.” She put her hands on her hips, still looking outraged. “And then we will see if I cannot teach Tywin a lesson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The account of the Martells' time at Casterly Rock really just follows what Oberyn tells Tyrion in ASOS, including most of the dialogue when they go see Tyrion (the whole cow/udder thing included). One difference is that in canon, the Princess of Dorne (who doesn't have a name in the books) only tells Oberyn about Tywin wanting to betroth Cersei to Rhaegar on her deathbed.  
Also, I'm not sure if the Princess of Dorne's consort at the time is her children's father, considering that Oberyn refers to him as “her consort” instead of “our father”, but that's a very minor detail anyway.


	4. 276 AC - Rhaegar

_Lannisport, the 2nd moon of the year 276 AC_

Rhaegar commanded his squires to leave him in his tent, and began his preparations.

He could've stayed up in Casterly Rock like his father, of course, but was much happier to be away from him. The king had seemed to have improved when Jaehaerys had been born, but after that babe had died, too, Aerys had gone back into full decline. And that even though he had another boy now, one they'd named Viserys – who had been born after nine moons, who seemed as healthy as any infant, and in whose honour this tourney was taking place. Still, little Viserys and their mother had remained in the Red Keep.

Rhaegar had mixed feelings about the tourney. It was the first he'd attend as a knight, and a great chance to showcase his prowess, remind the people that there were more Targaryens than just his father, and gage the mood of the lords. Of course, the occasion of a healthy brother being born was a joyous one, too, even though he felt like it had made Aerys even worse; bringing him to new heights of paranoia. The babe had never once left Maegor's Holdfast, his mother wasn't allowed to be alone with him, and the king's food taster had to taste the wet nurse's milk first to ensure there was no poison on her nipples.

And yet, Rhaegar knew that the tourney was not only meant as a conciliatory gesture from the Hand to his king, but also a pretext for fulfilling Tywin Lannister's highest hope – that Rhaegar would be betrothed to his daughter, Cersei. Oberyn had warned him of this years ago, complete with a report on the girl's personality, and Rhaegar was not impressed. He would have to steer his father to decline the offer, and soon.

What was worse, this tournament had cut short his time in Oldtown. Oberyn had returned from unofficial exile in the Free Cities a few moons ago (some business where he may or may not have killed Lord Yronwood), and that had included that visit to Qohor they had been speaking about for years, as well as some time in Volantis. From there, he had somehow managed to obtain a number of ancient Valyrian scrolls from behind the Black Walls (Rhaegar had not dared to ask how). Now, he was studying at the Citadel under Archmaester Marwyn, who Rhaegar had found to be just as interesting and impressive of a man as his friend had promised. He'd only been there for a few weeks, but had already learned quite a lot.

The Archmaester also had some ideas about the prophecy, helping him pierce everything together.

He sighed, forcing himself to clear his head. From one of his chests, he got out everything he'd need.

Rhaegar began by taking a few pieces of dried pine sap and grinding them up in a mortar, focusing on the motion while he quietly sung the first verses of a hymn. When the sap had turned to powder, he scattered it over the coals of the brazier in his tent, filling the air with the scent.

Next, he pulled out his rug with the seven-pointed star on it. It was more than just a normal devotional item, for he had sown on the symbols of the faces of God at each of the points, each in a different colour and made of a different fabric. At the red leather symbol of the Warrior, he now placed a red candle.

Still singing, Rhaegar arranged a few items in the middle, kneeling so he'd face the candle. The skull of a ram and a small piece of horn, the feather of a falcon, an iron dagger with rubies laid into the hilt, the mortar and pestle, an empty iron amulet.

“_Oh mighty Warrior”_, he chanted, _“grant me Your strength, Your valour, Your courage.” _He looked at the skull, his mind's eye turning it into a living beast. _“As the ram runs towards his foe”_, Rhaegar picked up the piece of horn, threw it into the mortar and crushed it with the pestle. _“As the falcon dives in on his prey”_, he plucked off a piece of the feather and added it to the horn. _“As the dragon's flame burns his enemies to dust”_, he took the dagger, placed a small cut on his arm and let the blood drop into the mortar. _“So I shall face my opponents on this day.”_ While he ground it all together, Rhaegar visualised himself on his stallion, lance striking one man after the other before they tumbled to the ground. He could feel the horse under him as he emptied the contents of the mortar into the amulet; could feel the weight of the lance under his arm and the shock of impact when it met another's breastplate. _“For You are the most fearful of the Seven Who Are One, and I Your servant, who asks to be blessed with Your virtues.”_ He picked up the candle and let its wax drop onto the powdered ram's horn, bits of feather, and blood, sealing all in place.

Rhaegar closed his eyes, humming, and focused on his intent, on strength and victory, on feeling the Warrior's essence within him. When he knew the wax would be half dry, he opened them again, used the dagger to carefully carve into it. The symbol of the Warrior, combined with the sigil he'd created for himself.

“_Thank You, mighty Warrior”_, he chanted as he closed the amulet before passing it thrice through the candle's flame, _“for bestowing Your blessings on me.”_

He'd wear the charm under his armour during the jousts, and hoped it would at least take him to be one of the last eight.

As much as Rhaegar would like to study his Valyrian scrolls, there was no time. The first day of the tourney began with an archery competition he did not participate in and that drew only a small amount of interest among the highborn – most participants were Lannisport smallfolk, who hoped to be one of the final seven who'd be taken into the Lannister household guard, while the winners would also gain a handsome bag of gold.

Most of the highborn were at a large breakfast held on the tourney grounds. His father managed to behave himself, graciously accepting the endless list of congratulations and well-wishes regarding Viserys. When Rhaegar was about to ready himself for the first round of jousting, the king grabbed his arm. “Bring pride to our House today, son”, he said. “No lesser man may make you tumble.”

He didn't intend to let that happen, either. “Of course, Father”, he said – as he had so many times before – and took his leave.

Being a knight brought the great advantage of having his own squires, as well as being able to participate in this tournament's lists, since Lord Tywin had decided it would be restricted to knights. He'd taken on his old friend Jon Connington, who was still too young for knighthood, as well as two younger men; Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth. None of them asked any questions when he slipped on his new amulet on top of his padded doublet.

“You will first go up against Ser Tygett Lannister, Your Grace”, Myles said. “He killed four men during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, even though he was only ten. One of them was a knight of the Golden Company, they say.”

“I know.” Rhaegar let them help him into his gilded chainmail. “Lord Tywin wanted him to become master-at-arms in the Red Keep a few years ago. I heard a lot about his prowess back then.”

The chainmail made him wish the secret to Valyrian steel hadn't been lost. That wouldn't be nearly as heavy. “Then”, Richard said, “it will be whoever wins between Gerion Lannister and Brynden Tully.”

They began strapping him into his black tourney armour. “Ser Brynden is by all accounts a seasoned warrior and skilled swordsman, but not a great jouster. If any of you decide to wager on them, pick Ser Gerion.”

Richard and Myles were outfitting his legs and feet, Jon his torso. “Whichever man it is, I am sure you will unhorse him”, Jon said, fastening his breastplate.

“I must.” Rhaegar raised his arms, letting Richard and Myles place the thick black steel around them. “I cannot be defeated that quickly during my first tourney as a knight.”

“And you will not, Your Grace.” Richard looked up at him. “Otherwise, those endless days of practice would have been useless, and we would have been polishing your armour for nothing. Do not let us down like that.”

He smiled. Everyone seemed to have great expectations placed on him, but they still weren't nearly as great as his own.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. As all the participating knights rode out to present themselves to the crowd, he drew far greater cheers than he had expected – more so than either his father or Lord Tywin when they'd sat upon the dais. This was a nice surprise, and made Jon's remark that he looked splendid in this armour ring true.

Rhaegar didn't ask for any lady's favour, well aware that anything of that sort would have political ramifications. Instead, he stayed back to watch the first few tilts before donning a gilded chain mail coif and his helmet, which had silken bands in red, gold, and orange attached to it – the hope being that they'd float behind him like flames.

He struck Ser Tygett's head, sending him straight to the ground, before bringing his destrier around to assure himself that the man wasn't too badly hurt. He was, in fact, fine, leaving them both to watch his younger brother Ser Gerion defeat Brynden Tully.

Gerion did't have long to enjoy his victory, as Rhaegar unhorsed him in the next round. Four more knights of the Westerlands fell before his lance before the day was over, and Rhaegar was among the participants who made it to the next day.

When he had his armour removed, Jon grasped for his Warrior's amulet in order to take it off, then quickly yanked back his hand. “Seven hells, Rhaegar, it's _burning_.”

Richard and Myles looked quite suspicious, but he calmly took it in his hand. It felt pleasantly warm. “Do not worry about this”, he said, taking it off himself. “But do draw me a bath. I cannot appear before the Lannisters drenched in sweat.”

After he'd got cleaned up, it was time to formally meet Lord Tywin's twins. To nobody's surprise, his younger son wasn't anywhere to be seen. From what Rhaegar had heard, Tyrion the dwarf was seldom let out of Casterly Rock.

The other two, however, were obviously exactly the kind of children his father's Hand would want. They were already quite tall for their age of ten, with near-identical faces, green eyes and golden hair, clad in fine silks and velvets. He met them just before supper (he was _hungry_, he realised, after that long day) in the Great Hall of Casterly Rock, standing next to his father. “Your Grace”, Lord Tywin said, “I present to you my daughter, the Lady Cersei, and my son, Jaime.”

Cersei gave a perfect little curtsy and Jaime bowed, while Rhaegar put on his courtly smile. “A pleasure to meet you both. I can see you already are testaments to your parents' dignity and grace.” It had been a terrible shame about Lady Joanna, and his mother had wept for hours.

“You rode very well, Your Grace”, Jaime said, while Cersei was staring at him with large eyes, strangely enough. “I will become a squire soon, and one day a knight like you.”

That was, indeed, likely to happen. Lord Tywin cleared his throat. “Perhaps Jaime could squire for His Grace?”, he suggested.

Rhaegar already had more squires than he needed, though he could see the value in taking on the Lannister boy. It would make it possible for him to influence Jaime, and would soothe Tywin's pride when his father hopefully refused the betrothal.

Unfortunately, it wasn't his decision to make. “I think not”, his father said. Jaime's shoulders sagged. Rhaegar cut in before the king could say anything more. “I have three squires already, otherwise I would be glad to take you on, Lord Jaime. Your talents would be better placed with a knight who has more need of your assistance.”

Tywin nodded in deference, and Rhaegar hoped that this had somewhat placated him.

The second day of the tournament began with a melee. Rhaegar had decided to stay out of it to save his strength for the joust, and watched as Ser Brynden emerged as the winner, presumably soothing his pride after he'd done so badly the day before.

He went up against six more knights from the Westerlands that day, besting them all. The third sustained a broken arm, unfortunately, and Rhaegar told Jon to send him his own maester. At the fifth, he almost fell after the first tilt, but managed to hang onto his horse when his arm grabbed the reins without any conscious effort. Rhaegar mumbled a few words of gratitude to the Warrior, then hit his opponent straight at the shoulder in the second tilt and send him falling into the dirt.

With each round, he garnered more cheers from the crowd. His squires insisted that he was the favourite among both the smallfolk and the highborn alike, though Rhaegar was quite sure that Ser Arthur or perhaps Ser Barristan were at least on par with him. Both rode extremely well that day, and if Rhaegar hadn't known them to be highly capable knights already, this would've been greatly reassuring – nobody wanted an incapable Kingsguard. (Although they did have one, old Ser Harlan, though he couldn't be blamed for his age. Rhaegar had long decided that the tradition of Kingsguard serving for life was somewhat impractical.)

“If you will not believe that they all love you”, Richard said at the end of the day, “then at least admit that little Lady Cersei does. I have never heard a young girl cheer that loudly.”

“_Love_ is too great a word to use for a ten-year-old”, Rhaegar replied. “She likely believes that we will be betrothed on the morrow. Of course she wants me to succeed.”

That was news to both his younger squires. “Do you believe the king will suggest a betrothal, Your Grace?”, Myles asked.

Jon snorted while they lifted the chainmail over Rhaegar's head. “Lord Tywin will. And His Grace would be wise to refuse.”

“But would the Lord Hand not see that as a slight?” Richard was justifiably concerned. “After the king has already decided that Jaime would not join us.”

“A slight or not”, Jon waited for Rhaegar to remove his amulet himself, “Cersei Lannister has no business being betrothed to our prince.”

He was quite sure that Jon wouldn't consider anyone good enough for him. “My royal father will choose wisely, I am sure.” Especially if he could succeed in steering him in the right direction. “Until then, none of you shall speak of this to anyone.” He gave them a stern look. “That is a command from your prince.”

He rode up to Casterly Rock a bit earlier than was necessary in order to seek out his father in his chambers. When Rhaegar entered, Aerys was sitting behind a desk with a cup of wine in his hand.

“Ah, my son”, he said. “It was a pleasure to see you ride today. Aemon the Dragonknight come again.”

_Both without dragons_, Rhaegar thought. It was good that the king was well-disposed towards him; he'd thought there was a danger of him being angered at Rhaegar gaining more admiration than himself.

“It is my only wish to bring glory to our House”, he replied, because that was usually a good thing to say to Aerys. Rhaegar stopped in front of the desk. “However, I have heard some troubling news we must discuss.”

His father pointed towards a chair. “Sit, then, and speak your mind. Pour yourself some wine as well.”

He did as commanded, then said: “Jon Connington has been speaking to some of the Lannister squires, and they have told him of a rumour making the rounds.” He thought that was a good excuse for him knowing of Tywin's intentions; the king generally seemed to trust Jon. “Apparently, many of them believe that Lord Tywin is planning to propose a betrothal to you, Your Grace. He wishes to offer Cersei as my bride.”

Aerys almost chocked on his wine. “Now, that is _troubling_.” He impatiently wiped up the stains from around his mouth with his sleeve. “Who does he think he is? I thought his deformed son would have taught him some humility.”

Well, at the very least it was clear that this betrothal wouldn't take place. Rhaegar hoped that the king wouldn't be too rude about it, though that did seem unlikely.

Aerys went on. “The only woman fit for you is one of Valyrian blood. If only Shaena had not been stillborn, you could have wed in a few years.” The only female child his parents had ever had had been born when he was eight, though she had never lived. “And the Velaryons have no girls around your age, either. I have been thinking about sending someone to Essos to find you a wife. The Old Blood of Volantis have been keeping their bloodlines pure.” He slowly shook his head. “That has been our problem, you hear? We are close to mongrels at this point, having bred with too many inferiors. _Cersei Lannister_.” He spat. “She will be as beautiful as her mother, to be sure, but she is only an Andal.”

Rhaegar had to voice agreement with his father in order to keep him in relatively high spirits, even though he was far from convinced. Their Valyrian blood didn't make them superior, even though he was sure there was magic in it – but they likely weren't the only ones that applied to.

“Will Cersei's heart be broken today?”, Jon asked him on the morrow of the third and final day of the tournament. They were alone in Rhaegar's tent, with Richard and Myles still breaking their fast.

“Her dreams of becoming queen will be crushed, yes.” He was inspecting his armour, still finding it in good condition. “Assuming that she had those. I doubt her heart has much to do with it.”

Jon groaned from where he was sitting on a chair. “You are a blind fool, Your Grace. Did you not notice how she looked at you last night? Even before your singing made her weep. She is infatuated with you, as are at least half the highborn girls in Westeros.”

“Because I am the Prince of Dragonstone”, he replied. “Everyone likes the idea of a crown.”

“Gods, Rhaegar.” He looked up, surprised at his friend's tone. “You being a prince adds to it, of course, but – you are the most comely man in the realm, a valiant knight, gallant, just, learned, and able to play the most beautiful music anyone has ever heard.” Jon had stood up by now, and was looking at him with unusual intensity. “Forgive me for my outburst, Your Grace, but you _must_ understand how people see you. Close to everyone loves you, in one way or another.”

Rhaegar considered that. Jon was right, of course, that he had to be aware of the way he was perceived. Then again, his friend's opinion of him had always been more favourable than he thought was justified. Certainly, from a purely objective standpoint, he knew he was good-looking (anyone with Valyrian features was), that he had become a capable warrior, that people liked his singing, that he did make an effort to treat everyone well -

“Perhaps you are right, to some extent”, he finally concluded, and Jon sat back down with a melodramatic sigh of frustration. “See, that makes you even more appealing”, he said. “To people, I mean. Your humility.”

“I am sure I shall learn more of that today”, Rhaegar said. “I cannot imagine an outcome to this tourney in which I am not knocked to the ground by one of the Kingsguard.”

After defeating two more men, it was time for Rhaegar to go up against Ser Barristan Selmy. It was the second-to-last round of jousting; better than he had hoped for, but he was quite sure that this would be his last.

For four tilts, both remained atop their horses, lances splitting on each other or striking shields to no effect. Bringing his destrier around for another attempt, Rhaegar cleared his mind. _Like the ram_, he thought, _the falcon, the dragon. _Somehow, he thought he could feel his amulet through his tunic and doublet. _The Warrior's strength, valour, courage. _He smelled pine, and iron, and blood.

The trumpet sounded and he dug in his spurs. His destrier's body felt as if it was part of his own, as did the lance. Rhaegar was sure that there was a presence other than himself; the pure essence of abstract concepts suddenly tangible – _power, boldness, knighthood. Victory._

He barely noticed how he swatted Ser Barristan's weapon away with his shield, and was only slightly more aware of his own lance striking the middle of the other man's torso. The force of the blow split the wood, and sent Barristan flying off his horse.

There were cheers, he dimly noticed. Rhaegar was breathing heavily while his horse slowed, and was only brought back to himself when Jon helped him down, a large grin on his face.

His friend seemed to notice that he wasn't really there. “Look”, he said, opening Rhaegar's visor and turning him to face the crowd. “I told you, did I not?”

People did, indeed, seem happy for him. He saw the king clap with satisfaction, Jaime with much enthusiasm, Cersei with a bright pretty smile, and Tywin with – well, politeness. Clearly, the proposal hadn't been made yet.

Rhaegar began to walk to Ser Barristan, who was trying to get back on his feet. The knight's own squire slowed down when he saw him approach, and Jon kept running behind him. “You”, he said, apparently much more excited than Rhaegar himself, “are seventeen, and have just been knighted, and have unhorsed a knight of the Kingsguard.”

He didn't reply, instead reaching down to extend an arm to Ser Barristan. “You are allowed to smile now”, Jon said.

“Indeed, Your Grace.” Barristan seemed without any serious injury. “That was well done.”

Rhaegar still didn't know how to react, only very slowly coming back to his senses. _That_ had been an experience. He'd worked with the faces of God before, and often to decent results, but he'd never felt anything like this.

It had been the last joust before the final round – in which he'd have to go up against Ser Arthur Dayne; knight of the Kingsguard, dear friend, and impossible to beat. There was a break before, however, in which Rhaegar's squires did their best to annoy him with reenactments of the tilt. They seemed to be of the opinion that he should be proud of his victory, and in a way, he thought he was – some combination of his training with the lance and his work with the Warrior had brought him this far, and that was good, as he was trying to establish himself as someone the lords would want as their future king. So it was a success, overall, even if he would be defeated by Arthur.

They rode up to each other before the joust, which was slightly delayed by the absence of Lord Tywin and the king. “You have done well so far, Your Grace”, Arthur said, “but I am afraid that this will be the end of it. I will be gentle, however, for I am sworn not to harm you.”

“There would be no shame in being defeated by you, old friend”, he replied.

Arthur sighed. “You are supposed to boast at this stage, Rhaegar. This is not the time to be reasonable.”

They were interrupted by trumpets announcing the arrival of the king and his Hand. As they sat upon the dais, Rhaegar noticed that both looked distinctly tense, even enraged, if one knew how to read them.

It was done, then, he thought as he rode away from Arthur, closing his visor. It was likely that his father had refused the engagement in an unnecessarily insulting way, which had always been a risk. Aerys wasn't known for his tact, and that was an issue.

The first tilt went well enough, both lances meeting shields, both knights still safe on atop their mounts. When Jon ran up to Rhaegar to bring him a new lance, he seemed slightly panicked. “The king wants to leave Lannisport after this round”, he told him. “Richard and Myles are already packing your things. The royal party will not be attending the feast.”

Seven hells. Rhaegar took the lance and brought his destrier into position, but could not succeed in clearing his head. How bad could the situation be if they had to leave immediately? This was so visible; such an obvious rebuke in the eyes of half the nobles of the realm. Lord Tywin would add it to the long list of slights his father had committed against him – and he wasn't a man who would leave slights unavenged.

He knew he was far too deep in thought, tried to focus all his attention on the joust, but was hardly able to. His father with his capacity for making enemies out of allies was increasingly a problem, Rhaegar thought while he gave his horse the spurs. He was the unfortunate combination of an unpopular and a weak king: at least mildly despised by most of his lords, and potentially unable to keep them in line against their will. He lowered his lance. If Aerys continued to deteriorate and drive the Great Houses to act against them, that could be dangerous, especially if they managed to halt their own infighting.

He should take a good look at their alliances, he told himself when Arthur's lance struck him across the chest and sent him tumbling to the ground. _Oh well_, Rhaegar thought, and then: _that hurts._ He'd landed on his shoulder, which might have been dislocated. Nothing too bad.

Arthur helped him up, and Rhaegar opened his visor. “Have you heard?”, he asked. “We will leave now.”

“Your Grace?” Arthur took off his helmet, to cheers from the crowd. He had just won the tourney, after all.

“I do not mean to ruin your moment of triumph, but my sire's wishes do.” Rhaegar grasped Arthur by the gauntlet and raised his hand, turning them both around in the circle so everyone could get a good look. “Crown your queen of love and beauty, then ready yourself for the journey. That we are already taking our leave will be scandal enough, so please choose someone uncontroversial.”

In a way, he was glad not to be the champion. No matter who he could have picked, it would have had consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The “poisoned nipples” anecdote is another delightful bit of canon. 
> 
> Oberyn's Essosi exile went a bit differently in this story – less running around with sellswords, more magic. The dates are all very vague and contradictory, so I had to make it all fit somehow. At the very least, we know that Lady Nym would have to be born at some time during the two years proceeding this, which tells us that Oberyn would have been in Volantis during that period. Since her mother is a Volantene noblewoman, that means that Oberyn had a lover who resided behind the Black Walls, which is how he would've got the Valyrian scrolls.
> 
> Rhaegar's fancy tournament outfit is straight out of AFFC, as is the claim that he defeated Tywin's two brothers as well as twelve other knights before getting to Barristan, and finally Arthur Dayne. Which is weird if you assume it's the kind of tourney where two knights go up against each other, the winner progresses to the next round, etc., because then that'd mean 16 rounds – so 2^16 participants, or 65,536. So it was probably organised somewhat differently, or Cersei misremembered. Anyway, handwave it for this.
> 
> Also, apparently Richard and Myles became Rhaegar's squires only after Tywin offered Jaime and Aerys refused, but I realised that too late after writing this and honestly just can't be bothered to change it.


	5. 277 AC - Lyanna

_Winterfell, the 9th moon of the year 277 AC_

Lyanna wasn't feeling good.

She was tired all the time, her feet hurt purely from walking through the castle, and her lower back ached no matter whether she was sitting, standing, or lying down. This wasn't really a surprise – Mother had told her it would happen soon.

When she'd turned three-and-ten, by now a good ten moons ago, they had laid a trap outside the castle and caught a hare in heat. After they'd sacrificed her in front of the weirwood, Lyarra had taught her how she could tell the future from an animal's innards, and in this case, it had clearly shown that Lyanna's moon blood would come within a year. Then, a few days ago, she had been sitting under the heart three while carving her own runes and had cut herself just as she was working on Barak, the rune for fertility. The blood had dropped onto her lap, and the next day, the pains had begun.

Today, however, she was mostly able to ignore all of it. Winterfell was buzzing with activity and excitement, from the stable boys and kitchen maids all the way up to Father himself. The Stark siblings, of course, were the most affected of all.

Lyanna lined up in the courtyard behind the east gate between Bran and Ben, their parents next to the eldest brother. “I hope those southroners have made a real man out of him”, Bran said. He'd returned from fostering just over a year ago. “If they have, then I am looking forward to having him back.”

“And if they have not?” Lyanna crossed her arms. Bran could sometimes have a very narrow definition of a real man.

Her older brother shrugged; a large motion of his broad, fur-clad shoulders. “Then I will.”

“I for one am glad Ned is returning either way”, Ben said. He was still smaller than Lyanna for now, but that wouldn't last long, if Bran's size was anything to go by. “This is the first time we have all been home since – since when?”

“Almost nine years”, Mother said. Shouts at the gate announced that the party had arrived, and excitement built in Lyanna. She'd last seen Ned three years ago, when he'd met Father on a journey to visit the crannogmen and she'd been allowed to join them.

Now, he had turned six-and-ten, and his fostering at the Eyrie was over. He'd still return there once in a while, their parents had said, but he'd be with them for a few moons at least.

The inner gate opened and the riders appeared. From what she knew, Ned had been accompanied up to the Neck by Vale men, then rode through it with the Reeds, and had met with Stark riders at Moat Cailin. Even if she hadn't known all the men at his side, Lyanna would've recognised him in an instant, so much did he look like the rest of them (though much older from the last time she'd seen him).

Ned smiled when he saw them, swiftly dismounting. Formalities soon gave way to hugs, and it turned out that Ned was now a good bit shorter than Bran and much taller than her, with a face almost a spitting image of Father's. Just as Lyanna remembered, he wasn't nearly as loud and boisterous as Bran, nor as prone to smiles as Ben, but rather showed the self-possessed calm of their mother.

Much to the younger siblings' disappointment, Ned announced that he had something of high importance to discuss, and disappeared into Father's solar with Bran and their parents almost immediately. Ben looked after them, face sullen. “How important is it that he won't even have a bath and something to eat?”, he asked.

“Some news from the south”, Lyanna decided. “Maybe about the king. I've heard he is being held captive by some Crownlands lord.”

“That's not good”, Ben said, displaying about the exact amount of understanding she would have expected of him. Lyanna snorted. “No. It is not.”

Hours later, presumably after Ned had had a bath and some rest, was she called into Father's rooms. Upon entering the solar, Lyanna noticed that both her parents and older brothers were there, but Ben was not.

That meant it was about her, and after that conclusion, it wasn't hard to guess what the news could be.

“Lyanna”, Father said just after she'd sat down, “Ned has returned from the Eyrie with an offer of betrothal for you. After some consideration, I have decided to accept.”

As much as she wasn't surprised, it still felt strange to have her suspicions confirmed. “It cannot have been a very difficult decision”, she said, “if your consideration only took an afternoon. Who is it?”

“Ser Robert Baratheon”, Mother said. “He is only four years older than you, dear, already a renowned knight, and of course the heir to Storm's End.”

Lyanna looked to Ned. “Your foster brother.” He nodded. “What is he like?”

Ned took a moment to consider his answer. “Rob is another brother to me, and he will treat you well, Lya. He is strong and brave, tall and handsome, and will always protect you.”

That just sounded like a southron version of Bran to her. “It is a good match”, her oldest brother said. “You will be the lady of a Great House.”

She hummed. “Catelyn Tully will come here, and I will go to Storm's End. Ned fostered at the Eyrie. Is this building towards some greater purpose?”

Her parents exchanged a look. “You need not concern yourself with such things”, Lord Rickard said.

Anger flared up in Lyanna, and she straightened her spine. “I am a pawn in this game, Father, so I do believe that it concerns me. If I am to wed some southron lord, I would at least like to know why.”

A brief silence followed. “She has a point”, Bran said, while Ned nodded. Mother sighed and gave Father another look, before he said: “Very well. This may under no circumstances leave this room, however.”

The anger was replaced by triumph. That sounded like she would finally be let in on something, and Lyanna eagerly gave her ascent.

“As you might have heard”, Father said, “the king has been increasingly erratic as of late. The Lords Tully, Arryn, Baratheon, and I have been working on forging an alliance, so as to assure that Aerys would not be able to act against any of us.” He paused while she nodded her understanding. “I know these men from the war against the Band of Nine, before any of you were born. We are also attempting to gain Lord Lannister's support by marrying Lord Hoster's younger daughter to his heir, though this has not yet been accomplished.”

“But now the king is being held prisoner, is he not?”, she asked. “How can he be a threat?”

“If the gods are good, Darklyn will kill him”, Bran murmured, earning a warning glare from Mother. Father sighed. “If His Grace should perish at Duskendale, the Iron Throne would pass on to Prince Rhaegar, and the realm would be better for it. Lord Darklyn would be senseless to do so, however, since that would mean the certain ruination of his House.”

“That will be the inevitable outcome”, Ned said. “It was incredibly foolish to capture the king. Either way, the Darklyns will be punished.”

Lyanna could see that. She had also heard a lot about King Aerys' often difficult behaviour, tales of which had managed to travel as far as Winterfell. “And Prince Rhaegar will make a better king?”, she asked.

Everyone seemed to agree on that. “Of course, we do _not_ wish for Aerys to perish”, Father said, rather disingenuously. “However, should the king continue to behave the way he has, or worsen – then we will perhaps be able to reach a settlement with the prince. I am sure he would not want to see his father dead, but convincing him to agree to a regency is another matter altogether.” Then he gave her a very stern look. “If you repeat this to anyone outside this room, even Benjen, you could cause all of our deaths. Do you understand that, Lyanna?”

She swallowed. “Yes, Father.” If she'd have to keep a secret, she would.

When her maid opened the curtains the next morning, Lyanna felt heavy. “Why so early?”, she mumbled from under the sheets.

“Early, my lady?” Peeking out from under the covers, Lyanna could see the maid, Emy, looking at her in confusion. “It's the same time as every day.”

Lyanna groaned, throwing off the sheets with what felt like far too much effort. She hadn't even stayed up late, so why was it so difficult to get out of bed? She felt sick, too.

Emy was already drawing her a bath, and so she sat up, shaking off the immediate dizziness until she made it to her feet, after which she had to hold on to a bedpost. Annoyed, Lyanna undid the lacing at the top of her nightgown and let it fall to her feet, then immediately felt a chill. She decided her hair need not be washed (and thus wet, and cold) today, grabbed a band to tie it up before she got into the bath, and then felt something running down her inner thigh.

“Oh, right”, Lyanna said when she spotted the very thin trickle of blood. “Look, Emy.”

“My lady!” The maid sounded far more enthusiastic than Lyanna felt. “How wonderful. You are a woman now!”

With longing, Lyanna watched her pour another bucket of hot water into the bath. She would just get in now. “I do not feel like a woman”, she said as she stepped into the tub, then gave a blissful sigh as the warmth enveloped her, immediately relaxing her tense muscles. “I feel like a girl with an aching belly. And back, and feet. Is that what being a woman is like?”

She leaned forward so Emy could pour the next bucket of warm water right down her back, which was possibly the best thing she'd felt this whole year. And to think she used to dislike baths. “To be honest, my lady”, Emy said, “it often is.”

“Gods”, she said. Then realised: This meant she'd need to spend the day with Mother in the godswood, which she normally wouldn't mind – except for the fact that she was supposed to practice riding at rings today, as she'd made Bran promise.

But even if it hadn't been for the day in the godswood, Lyanna had to admit to herself that she didn't feel like holding a heavy lance.

“How do you feel?”, Mother asked. Lyanna had discretely let her know that her blood had come before breakfast, and as soon as the meal had been concluded, they'd ventured to the snow-covered godswood together.

“Terrible”, she replied. “Everything is just a little bit worse. Why do they call it flowering?”

Lyarra put her hand on her shoulder. “It is more polite, and it makes men think that it is a wondrous moment of womanly beauty, and not -”

“Bleeding out of your privates while really wanting to retch”, Lyanna said. “I understand.”

Mother gave her a reproachful look, but let it slide. “Either way, there is magic in it. You are able to conceive children from now on, even though you really should not.”

Lyanna was surprised. “So I will not be wed to Ser Robert soon?”

“No, dear.” Lyarra stopped her walk in front of the heart tree, but didn't sit down as she usually did. “Your lord father and I have agreed that it would be irresponsible for the time being. According to the laws of both gods and men, you are now free to marry, but your body is not yet fully grown. Childbirth would be terribly dangerous. Depending on the political situation, we shall wait another three to five years.”

“I am glad to hear that.” Uncertain as to what she should do, Lyanna did not sit either. Mother regarded her with a kind smile. “Marriage is not bad, my dear. Of course, I was not in your situation; I have known your father since I was a little girl. But Ned vouches for Ser Robert.”

“I know.” Lyanna sighed. “I am not complaining.” After all, she'd always known she'd be wed eventually – and at the very least, marrying someone from a far-away place held a certain promise of adventure. “So what now?”, she asked, pointing at the weirwood.

“You need to undress.” Mother had said that very matter-of-factly, but Lyanna was surprised. “Out here?”

“Indeed.” When Lyanna looked around, Mother shook her head with a kind smile. “There are guards with their backs turned at every entrance. Nobody would dare to look upon you.”

That was true enough, she supposed. Lyanna stripped, even taking off her boots at Lyarra's behest. Then, she immediately wished she hadn't, as it was late autumn and really far too cold to be naked outside.

“It is best if you crouch above the roots”, Mother said.

“Am I trying to bleed onto them?” Lyanna was far from convinced, but did as told. “That could take forever. What if the blood freezes on the way down?”

Mother shrugged. “It will not. I suggest you lean back against the weirwood and pray until something happens.”

With another sigh, she complied and closed her eyes. _Please, dear gods_, Lyanna thought, _make a drop of blood come down before my toes turn blue._ She paused. _Forgive me. I am in the worst humour today, and such demands are far beneath you, gods. I only ask that you take this offering of my moon blood, whenever it may reach the roots of this sacred heart tree, and -_

Suddenly, the world turned even colder. _Frozen._ The chill Lyanna had felt before was replaced by an immobilising iciness, while her mind's eye seemed to leave her body.

She could see herself from the outside now – the frozen blue statue of a naked young girl crouching against a weirwood. A few steps away, Mother; an ice sculpture of a high northern lady.

Then, her vision travelled, leaving Winterfell northwards and soon reaching the Wall. Everywhere was cold, everywhere was ice; things she knew meant death. She could feel herself climbing up the Wall, cold hands digging into even colder crevices, then reached the top and saw: untouched, snow-covered ground, then a treeline.

Something _shifted_, years passed, and Lyanna was filled with immeasurable dread. Cold mist came forth from behind the trees, followed by – _things_. Dead things, she knew, suddenly in an avalanche, flooding towards the Wall. Behind them, inhuman riders on skeletal horses, one of whom lifted a horn up to its mouth.

Then: heat. Large flames shot through the sky behind Lyanna and the dead broke out into shrieks while she fell, fell, fell down the Wall and landed in warm water.

Much like her bath that same morning, it brought immediate relief. Her fear was gone, replaced by a feeling of comfort as she found herself in a large tub sunk into the floor of a room built of strange black stone. The furnishings suggested that it was part of a castle, the air was filled with the sweet scent of jasmine, and when she looked down at herself, Lyanna realised that she was older now; a woman grown – and heavy with child.

Suddenly, the water boiled around her as she was ripped in half, the world vanishing in a flood of blood and pain. Next, Lyanna was on a bed, holding a babe in her arms. Dark hair and grey eyes, just like herself.

She looked up, and found a man smiling down at her and her child. The father, she knew, and yet something was wrong. This was the most comely man she'd ever seen, but he had silver-gold hair and wore a doublet in black and red. It was not difficult to work out his identity at all, and he was most certainly not Robert Baratheon.

The next heartbeat, she saw a young warrior who looked so much like her brothers that it took her a moment to realise he was her son. And then, there was the father, again and again; the man who could only be the prince reading in a garden filled with wild roses, singing to her and another woman whose figure shone so bright she couldn't see her, holding her at night and calling her his queen.

With that pleasant vision, Lyanna came back to Winterfell's godswood. She realised she was now submerged in the pond before the heart tree, the water steaming around her.

Mother was watching her. “What happened?”, she asked.

Lyanna took a deep breath. _The prince_. She couldn't even begin to grasp the implications of that, although she knew that if this was what the gods had shown her, it would need to happen. And it certainly had to have something to do with the beginning of what she saw, so she decided to start there.

“Old Nan's stories of the Others and the dead”, she said, “were they ever real?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The runes in this are vaguely based on the real-world Elder Futhark runes, but have different names, and don't perfectly correspond.


	6. 278 AC - Rhaegar

_King's Landing, the 6th moon of the year 278 AC_

“_Oh, have you seen my boy, good ser”_, Rhaegar sang, “_his hair is chestnut brown. He'd promised he'd come back to me, our home's in Wendish Town_ _-”_

His mother sighed. “Does it always need to be something mournful?”

“What else is there?”, he asked, looking up from his harp. “I can hardly sing something bawdy to him.” He looked down at little Viserys, now two years old.

“You have not sung a single bawdy song in your life”, Rhaella said, sitting by her window seat, needlework in her hands. “Though that is not a complaint.”

Viserys was busy ignoring them, smashing two extravagantly painted wooden dragons against each other. “Have you seen Father today?”, Rhaegar asked.

His mother immediately went back to her sowing. “I have not”, she said, and he let out a breath.

Viserys had never once left Maegor's Holdfast, and neither had the queen in the time since he'd been born. This hadn't even changed while his father had been held captive at Duskendale, even though Rhaegar had asked her many times to at least take a walk in the gardens – but her fear sat too deep. Perhaps she had been right, in a way, since the king had been infinitely worse ever since Ser Barristan had freed him from Lord Darklyn's dungeons. If he'd found out she'd disobeyed him during his captivity, there surely would've been some terrible punishment.

“There has been bad news”, Rhaegar said, setting down his harp. “Lord Baratheon has given up on his search in Volantis. It appears I am still lacking a bride.” He could only hope that Aerys wouldn't interpret Lord Steffon's failure as treason.

“Bad news indeed.” Rhaella watched Viserys, who'd cast away his toys and was walking around on wobbly legs. “Would that our cousin had had a daughter. Your lord father might have been convinced to wed her to you.”

Instead, he'd just had a third son. “There is no use in dwelling on such things”, Rhaegar said. “I will find a wife eventually.”

“Soon, one would hope. You are close to twenty years old.” She looked up to the two Kingsguard who'd been standing silently at the door. “Prince Lewyn, does your niece not remain unwed?”

Lewyn Martell, younger brother to Princess Mynara of Dorne, relaxed his guarding posture. “Indeed, Your Grace. No worthy suitor for Princess Elia has been found so far.”

His mother gave Rhaegar a meaningful look, and he remembered that she had once been, or perhaps still was, friends with the Princess of Dorne. He stood, carefully stepping out of Viserys' way while he was running towards Rhaella. “A solution will be found”, he said simply. “Prince Lewyn, will you accompany me? Your nephew is due to arrive soon.”

He said his farewells to his mother and nodded at Ser Jonothor Darry, the second Kingsguard, then made to leave Maegor's. Rhaegar had been looking forward to Oberyn's visit for a while, and not only because he was bringing something very interesting he'd acquired from his Essosi friends.

Just as they had crossed the moat leading out of the Holdfast, Rhaegar and Prince Lewyn walked past Cersei Lannister and a few other young ladies. All stopped to curtsey, to which Rhaegar gave a nod before briskly moving on, hearing giggling behind him.

“I do wonder why Lord Lannister has so suddenly decided to bring his daughter to court”, Lewyn mused. “It is surely not possible that he knew Lord Baratheon's mission would fail.”

Rhaegar hummed. “Surely not. Although a great deal of people seem to know a great deal of things, these days.”

“Most of all Lord Varys, it seems.” Their path crossed that of Grand Maester Pycelle, who bowed as deeply as ever.

So many people Rhaegar knew he couldn't trust. His father certainly didn't trust _him_ any longer, even though he'd never taken steps against him. Pycelle was Lord Tywin's greatest admirer, half the small council stood behind his father even as he grew ever more deranged (the punishment brought upon the Darklyns and their kin was something he'd never forget), and now this strange eunuch called Varys had arrived from Pentos, although he could also be from Lys or Myr, depending on who you asked. His arrival had turned the Red Keep into even more of a snake pit than it had been before, and Rhaegar was not under the illusion that the man's reported powers as a spymaster had been exaggerated. He'd performed a few rites in order to learn more, and what he'd found had made him deeply, deeply suspicious of the man.

Maybe, though, what you needed in a snake pit was your own viper. “Varys certainly has his way of knowing things”, he said once they were out of Pycelle's earshot. Then, as if not obviously related: “Once your nephew has settled in, good prince, he and I will go for a ride outside the city. I should like for you and Ser Arthur to accompany us.” That way, those two Kingsguard were the only ones who could possibly overhear their conversation – with Arthur unquestionably loyal to Rhaegar, and Lewyn to Oberyn.

“Naturally, Your Grace. Although my nephew will also have to pay his respects to the king.”

He was aware of that. “Needs must, I suppose. I will ask Ser Oswell to keep us informed of my sire's moods; perhaps he can catch him at one of his better moments.”

Despite the difficulty of the situation, not all was bad. At the very least, Rhaegar knew that he had some of the Kingsguard on his side. Arthur, naturally; Ser Oswell Whent; and quite likely the Lord Commander Gerolt Hightower himself. The closer he got to the Martells, the more assured he could be of Prince Lewyn's loyalty. One more spot would most certainly open soon, with Ser Harlan gravely ill in White Sword Tower. And then, Duskendale had shown him something else as well; something far greater which opened up new possibilities – and these needed to be discussed with his friends.

Later that day, he was riding the hills outside King's Landing with Oberyn, the two Kingsguard a few paces behind them. “Did the king receive you well?”, he asked.

Oberyn shrugged. “He barely took notice of my presence. I believe His Grave was too occupied with a man called Rossart.”

“That does sound like my father.” Shaking his head, Rhaegar looked down towards the city. “Rossart and his pyromancers are a scourge, and are not doing anything to rein him in.”

“Troubling stories have reached even us in Sunspear”, Oberyn said. “Of all the Darklyns and Hollards being burned alive.”

“He let one Hollard boy live, but otherwise, that is true.” Rhaegar took a deep breath to steel himself for speaking treason. “It cannot be allowed to go on like this. For years, we have been hoping for him to get better, and yet it has never come to pass. And I have _tried_, Oberyn. I have appeased him, opposed him, attempted to reason with him, to manipulate him, to cast spells to soothe him – which usually worked, though not for long. He is too far gone.”

Oberyn hummed, looking much more serious than most times. “To put it in direct terms”, he said, “are you planning on deposing the king?”

That wasn't a phrasing Rhaegar was comfortable with, but it was true nonetheless. “Eventually, I will need to call a Great Council”, he said. “Perhaps to decide on a regency. He could live on Dragonstone until his natural passing. At the very least, the siege at Duskendale gave me the impression that there are many who would like me to rule.”

“Oh, certainly. People in general have a high opinion of you.” Oberyn gave him an appraising look. “What happened at Duskendale?”

“During the siege”, Rhaegar said, “Lord Tywin implied – quite subtly – that perhaps, we would have to cut our losses by storming the castle, even if it meant my lord father's death. Even more subtly, he suggested that he would be willing to take responsibility for the decision, provided that I took Cersei to bride.” He sighed. “Of course, that is exactly what the king now suspects, and he is not even wrong, even though I never even graced the offer with a response. I would be willing to marry a girl I do not particularly like for the good of the realm, but I will not knowingly cause my father's death.”

“And yet, had you taken Tywin's bargain, the realm would have rejoiced.” They entered a more wooded part of the landscape, obscuring the city from sight. “Besides, you would not have needed to marry Cersei yet, I am sure. How old is she now?”

“Three-and-ten”, Rhaegar said. “I do believe that Tywin's offer would have hinged on wedding and bedding her as soon as she'd flowered.” The thought made his stomach turn.

“Too young”, Oberyn agreed. “Although I am curious – who would be more to your taste?”

Nobody in particular, although Rhaegar had had his experiences with two or three ladies at court. “A woman old enough to speak with me without her septa standing by”, he said. “Be that as it may, something needs to be done, and the high lords are growing dissatisfied. From what I gather, Lord Tully's older daughter is betrothed to the Stark heir, whose younger brother fostered with Robert Baratheon at the Eyrie, while Ser Robert is now betrothed to Lyanna Stark. What is more, I have heard whispers that Lord Hoster is trying to wed his younger daughter to Jaime Lannister.”

Oberyn nodded slowly, light catching on his face from in between the trees. “Stark, Tully, Baratheon, Arryn, and maybe Lannister. A great alliance. If you did wed Cersei, of course, you could become part of it, and might gain the support of more than half the realm.”

“And yet”, Rhaegar said, “I would rather not be too tied to the Lannisters. Lord Tywin is a fiercely ambitious man, and after all of Westeros has seen him as the true ruler for so long, I would not like to keep him this close to power.” He paused. “And if all those things were not enough, there is also the matter of this Varys.”

“The new master of whisperers? I have heard of him in Essos.” Oberyn looked up to the tree crowns, brown leaves against a grey sky. “Is he as competent as everyone says?”

“I am afraid so, but he is more than that. When I asked the Crone about him, all candles in the room flared up and then went out, all at once.”

Oberyn's head spun back to him. “Seven hells.”

“Indeed.” It was good to finally be able to talk about it. “I have been speaking to the red priest who arrived, that Thoros, but he has been useless. Still, I gazed into the flames and when I thought about Varys, I heard a child's scream. I also undertook a Valyrian ritual and looked into a dragonglass mirror, and what I saw was an enormous spider in a web spanning from the west of Westeros to the Narrow Sea. In it were thousands of birds, and a red dragon.”

“Well.” It took Oberyn a moment to process all of it. “This Varys must go, then. The tears of Lys, perhaps? Very subtle.”

“I was rather hoping to avoid outright murder”, Rhaegar said, but Oberyn adamantly shook his head. “That is a fantasy, Your Grace. Someone _that_ dangerous cannot be allowed to stay alive.”

“You may be right.” He was quite certain that Varys was only making his father's state worse. “But whoever he is and whatever he is trying to achieve, I find it unlikely that he should act entirely alone – and if someone has such a large network, it cannot be completely without fault.” They were riding far ahead of the Kingsguard by now. “I should like for you to contact Marwyn and ask him to take a look into the dragonglass as well, if he has not done so already. Further, it would be very helpful if you could make inquiries with your friends across the Narrow Sea. But you must be extremely careful.”

“That I can do”, Oberyn said. “I come with my own concerns, however. Your previous talk of the forming alliance would imply that you are looking for allies of your own.”

“Of course I am.” Rhaegar looked down on his horse, ran a hand through the black mane. “Would that I could wed Lysa Tully myself and win them all over, but it is still my sire who makes these decisions, and he does not like the idea of me marrying an _Andal_, as he'd say.”

Oberyn snorted. “She is of an age with Cersei, too, from what I understand. Now, you know I can offer you nothing but Dorne, although that would be a start – but my lady mother would be very willing to come to your side if it meant being rid of your father _and_ annoying Tywin Lannister. Still, there would be a price.”

When was there not? Rhaegar knew that, on a political level, allying with Dorne at the expense of the rest of the realm was foolish – it was such a small part of Westeros, and historically not viewed very fondly by the rest. And yet, every time he tried to divine the future or prayed for guidance, all signs pointed towards them. “And what would this price be?”, he asked, already suspecting the answer.

“Elia”, Oberyn said. “Make her your queen, and Dorne will be forever at your side.”

“Interestingly enough, my own mother suggested the same just this morning”, he replied. “A coincidence, I am sure.”

“Oh, of course.” Oberyn wore a thin smile. “You must have already given it some thought, then. If it is of any help, I can tell you that my sister is a woman grown, kind, quick-witted, and almost as attractive as I am.”

Rhaegar chuckled. “I see. I have no issue with marrying your sister, provided she takes none with marrying me, as I should not like to be wed to a woman who resents me for the rest of our lives.”

“I will ensure she thinks highly of you.” Oberyn looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You really are not the least bit surprised, are you?”

“It is an obvious solution”, he said with a shrug. “Although it will still be difficult enough to convince my father. At the very least, there is some shared blood between us, but I am not certain if that will be enough to persuade him.” He had already thought about this at some length. “The argument in our favour is that there is no-one else for me to wed at this point, of course.”

“I will not put it that way when speaking to Elia.” Oberyn took a look over his shoulder, saw that the Kingsguard were well out of earshot, and said: “Should you mistreat my sister in _any_ way, I will not hesitate to ensure that it is the last thing you do. You know I could kill you if I wanted to.”

Rhaegar raised his eyebrows and stopped his horse. “Are you threatening a prince of the realm, ser?”

“Yes.” All levity had left Oberyn. “If anyone ever harms her, I will not rest until they have suffered a slow and terrible death.”

Rhaegar had no trouble believing that. “In the interest of a harmonious marriage, we shall agree to keep this threat between us. Otherwise, I would need to at least have your tongue removed.”

Oberyn didn't seem too concerned by that. “Of course”, Rhaegar continued, “I will do my best to ensure that Prince Lewyn will be responsible for guarding her, if that is any consolation.”

Looking back at the two approaching men, Oberyn gave a light shrug. “Some. Now, does that conclude all the secrets we must presently discuss?”

Rhaegar briefly ran it all through his mind. “I believe so. Why?”

“Because I want to see if I can ride faster than the finest knights in the realm. Last one at the city gates has to speak to Pycelle tonight.” With that, Oberyn gave his horse the spurs, and Rhaegar gave himself a moment to shake his head before following, forcing the Kingsguard to do their best to keep up.

_Summerhall, a few days later_

“I usually come here alone”, Rhaegar explained to Oberyn, then glanced back at their entourage. “As much as I can ever be by myself, obviously.”

“You have taken me here before”, Jon pointed out. Behind them were Rhaegar's squires, Richard and Myles, as well as Arthur, Prince Lewyn, and Ser Oswell Whent – although at least without their own attendants. They were making themselves useful by tending to the horses and setting up tents and a cookfire.

“Of course I have”, Rhaegar said, which seemed to please Jon. Oberyn was looking around the ruins of Summerhall, appearing fascinated. “We have a place in Dorne that is almost similar”, he said. “Shandystone. Then again, it was abandoned because the well went dry, not because of a tragedy of this scale.”

“Not all that happened here was bad”, Jon said, glancing at Rhaegar. “Maester Aemon thinks the fire created the smoke and the tears shed after the salt, and that the prince who was promised was born here.”

This was the extent to which Rhaegar could get Jon interested in the prophecy. “So I have heard”, Oberyn said. “But what about the falling star? Archmaester Marwyn does not believe it is our prince here.”

“And neither do I.” Carrying his harp, Rhaegar made for the half-destroyed arch marking the entrance to the inner part of the castle, bidding them to follow. “In all my meditations and my prayers, I have never found the answer, though I do believe that I am coming closer. Perhaps it will be my son.”

“Possible”, Oberyn admitted, stepping over fallen stone behind him, glass clinking inside the saddlebag he still had. “I should like to be an uncle to the one who brings the dawn.”

Rhaegar didn't need to look at Jon to know he was frowning. “Is the match a certainty, then?”

“No”, Rhaegar said, while Oberyn answered: “Almost.” Jon snorted.

Through the ruins he knew so well, Rhaegar led his friends to Summerhall's former ballroom. “Ever since Varys has arrived”, he said while crossing a small courtyard where vines had overgrown dragon statues, “this is the only place where I feel safe enough to practice larger rituals. There are no people here who could spy on me.” They went through a grand hallway covered in the burnt remains of Myrish carpets. “It has also always been where I have felt safest”, he admitted.

“There is great power in ruins”, Oberyn said. “This is a place of fire, of both life and death, and of your House's history. You could choose worse.”

“Just wait until you see what he has done here so far”, Jon replied. With that, they stepped into the ballroom.

What had once been a splendid Great Hall was now as ruined as the rest of the castle – windows without glass, stone blackened and in some places molten, gaps in the ceiling letting in the diminishing daylight. On the ground, however, Rhaegar had made his own mark.

One half was dominated by the large seven-pointed star he'd painted on the floor. As on the rug he carried with him when travelling, each point was decorated with the symbol of the respective face of God in the appropriate colour, but he'd been able to do much more here – inscribing prayers into the points, adding all the metals and gems, consecrating it all with song and incense and deep prayer. It had taken him a week.

On the other side of the hall, an altar stood at the centre of three intersecting triangles he'd drawn on the ground in a mixture of ash from the ruin and a few drops of his own blood. The top was a large slab of dragonglass he'd found in the outer passages of the Dragonmont, held up by dragon bones, most of which they'd found in the remains of the Dragonpit. The Valyrian scrolls Oberyn had procured for him in Volantis had made it possible for Rhaegar to get a general idea of the magic of his ancestors, though he had no doubt that he was far removed from anything even approximating their powers.

“I quite like it”, Oberyn said, sounding more impressed than he'd likely intended. “How do you keep this place undiscovered? Do the smallfolk still believe it cursed?”

“Apparently so.” Rhaegar walked to a spot in between the two areas, right where the moonlight would shine in on a clear night. He liked to sleep there, and sometimes experienced what he thought could be dragon dreams.

Jon stayed back as Oberyn approached him. “It is not enough”, he said, to the other man. “I have been telling the prince for a while now: There are many at court who wish to harm or at least undermine him, and with Varys, the danger has increased. It is no secret that he favours this place. It must be guarded.”

If his old friend was willing to appeal to Oberyn on this, it had to be important to him, Rhaegar realised. “I believe you are right, ser”, the Dornishman said, then turned to him. “If anyone were to find this, it would be easy for them to accuse you of all kinds of things. Sorcery.”

“I do practice sorcery”, Rhaegar pointed out, then sighed as he sat down on the ground and put his harp beside him. Jon, Arthur, and his squires had all been telling him the same thing lately – even though none safe Jon had seen the room since they'd helped him move the bones and dragonglass, so as to keep them relatively uncompromised. “Would a guard not bring more attention than necessary?”

“It does not need to be obvious”, Oberyn said, while Jon nodded along. Rhaegar decided to leave that discussion to the morrow, as they now had something very different to do.

“You have brought it?”, he asked Oberyn, then beckoned Jon closer, too.

“Of course.” He sat next to him, casting a critical look at Jon. “You do not need to partake. It can be a harrowing experience.” With that, he opened his bag, removing from it a bottle made of dark blue glass, and a small pewter cup.

“I wish to”, Jon said, sitting next to them. _Three_, Rhaegar thought. He always appreciated when fate gave him such a number.

With a shrug, Oberyn opened the bottle, and poured a small measure of a thick, blue liquid into the cup. “The warlocks of Qarth are mad for it”, he said. “They consume far too much. It turns their lips blue first, and then their minds to mush – and, apparently, their cocks soft. I have had it once, in Qohor, and have been assured that small amounts taken occasionally will leave both minds and cocks intact.”

He drank the shade of the evening, and poured another measure. “Let us hope you are right”, Rhaegar said. “If not, all of Dorne would sorely miss your prowess, I am sure.”

“Oh, dearly.” Oberyn handed him the cup. “No, last time I drank it, everything was working quite well. I had the most interesting experience with the mages who had supplied it.” Wiggling his eyebrows, he added: “By which I mean: If you should feel interested, Your Grace, I would not be disinclined -”

He was interrupted by the choked sound Jon made, which promoted Oberyn to burst into a hearty laugh. Rolling his eyes, Rhaegar drank.

It tasted foul, at first, like rot and ash and the smell left by wildfire. Then, a warmth spread through him, and every sip was sweeter than the last – dry red wine and blood oranges, venison and malty dark ale, olives and dried apples. A maid's kiss, the feeling of a song on his lips, fresh snow and dragon peppers.

“How long?”, he asked, handing the cup back to Oberyn, who filled it back up for Jon.

“We will see. You could sing for us in the meantime.” When Jon took the cup, he cast one last questioning look at Rhaegar, who just nodded. It was his friend's own decision.

He picked up his harp, running his hand over the strings. Something not excessively mournful, he decided, remembering his mother's words a few days before.

“_I loved a maid as fair as summer_”, he sang, in the original Valyrian of the Myrish tune, _“with sunlight in her hair.”_

That night, Rhaegar learned new things.

First, threes _were_ important. The shade of the evening whispered it to him, spoke of the child of three – who was not his, even though he, too, would have the same number. Three heads had the dragon; three conquerors took Westeros; three begat three begat –

Second, he realised as he was lying on his back and staring up to the full moon, things had been set in motion, both by his actions and those of others. If he continued down this path, then the prince who was promised _would_ bring the dawn, born amidst salt and smoke and under a bleeding star – the three criteria –

Third, if he failed, death would claim all. This was the first time he glimpsed more of what they would need to be saved from. Rhaegar saw cruel blue eyes and a white doom, felt a dread he could have never imagined.

All throughout, he heard an unfamiliar song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really just a few young guys doing hallucinogens in an abandoned building.
> 
> The song Rhaegar sings at the beginning comes up in AFFC (“On a Misty Morn”), and the other is of course Seasons Of My Love.
> 
> I didn't want to add a whole detailed account of the Defiance of Duskendale, but for those who don't know/remember all the details: Lord Denys Darklyn had the extremely bright idea of holding the king hostage because he wanted a more advantageous formal relationship with the Iron Throne. Tywin besieged him for half a year, and Lord Darklyn threatened that he'd kill the king if they tried to storm the castle. The whole thing was eventually resolved when Barristan snuck in and freed Aerys. Darklyn surrendered, and both his family and the Hollards (his in-laws) were all tortured and then burned to death in retaliation. The only exception was a young boy who Barristan begged to be spared – Dontos Hollard, Sansa's not-quite-Florian. The Defiance was ultimately seen as the event that really made Aerys snap.
> 
> In canon, Varys only came to Westeros after Steffon Baratheon died when returning from his expedition, but I... wanted to fit him into this chapter.


	7. 279 AC - Elia

_Storm's End, the 3rd moon of the year 279 AC_

“My deepest condolences, my lady”, the knight said, quite stiffly. “And my congratulations, too.”

Elia gave a small curtsey. “Thank you, Ser Stannis. I am sorry for your loss as well.”

With a nod, he hurried away, clearly very uncomfortable with the conversation. It had to be done, however; they'd both just lost their parents.

She maintained a polite smile for the next well-wisher, Leyton Hightower – who could've been her good-brother, had things gone differently.

Instead, Elia was now betrothed to Rhaegar Targaryen, who she still had not met. She was quite certain that the prospect of the betrothal had been the only thing keeping her mother alive towards the end, since she had smiled when it had finally been confirmed, and then let her illness take her. At least Doran, consequently _the_ Prince of Dorne, had his wife and little daughter to console him.

Now the future queen, every single attendant at the tourney seemed to feel the need to speak to Elia, expressing both their grief at her mother's passing and their joy at her betrothal. She could've expected as much, she supposed – though her mother's death was not the only one being discussed today, as the tourney was held by the new Lord of Storm's End, Robert Baratheon, in honour of his recently deceased parents.

“Thank you very much, ser”, she said, “please extend my greetings to -”

Oberyn appeared by her side, near out of nowhere. “Excuse my sister”, he told Leyton, and gently dragged her to the side. “Rhaegar has arrived”, he said. “He suggests your first meeting take place somewhere more private than this.”

Elia looked around the Round Hall of Storm's End. Half the nobility of the southern parts of Westeros was here, with Lord Robert standing by his high seat with a dozen knights around him and every single stormlord in attendance to pay respect to their new liege. “That would suit me well”, she told Oberyn. “Though His Grace will have to come to my quarters if he wishes to speak.”

Elia was much more nervous than she'd like to admit.

It was natural, she supposed; she was just about to meet the man she'd marry. But she'd heard so much about the prince, about his gallantry and intelligence and inhumanly handsome Valyrian looks. It was difficult not to be intimidated.

Sending her maids away after they'd fussed over her appearance and assured her of her beauty for a while, Elia took a last look in the mirror and made herself breathe deeply. She wore a gown made of many layers of pale orange silk – clearly Dornish, but not immodest in the eyes of those not raised in her homeland. Her arms, neck, ears, and crown of her head were all adorned with gold and fire opals, which not only looked good against her hair and skin, but also served as a confirmation of her rank without being an excessive display of wealth.

That was all she could do. Further, as her mother probably would have told her now, the prince was stuck with her anyway. It would be nice to make a good first impression, but he could hardly undo the engagement just because he didn't like what he saw.

The arrival of her betrothed was preceded by Oberyn and their uncle Lewyn, who Elia had last seen at her mother's funeral. Before they had much time to greet each other, however, the prince stepped into the room.

People weren't wrong about his looks, she thought. He was more beautiful than most women she knew, including a few Lysene concubines she'd seen when her mother had been visited by a delegation of magisters. Taller than she'd expected, too. His pale skin and long silver-gold hair stood in stark contrast to the black he wore, scarlet visible through the slashes in his sleeves, the only jewellery a three-headed dragon pin on his doublet, and a ruby-studded circlet on his brow.

Introductions weren't necessary. Elia sunk into a low curtsey, then was immediately pulled up when the prince took her hand and lightly brushed his lips atop it.

“My lady”, he said with a bow, voice like velvet, “it is a pleasure to finally meet you. I have heard many call you the Sun of Dorne, though I can now see that it is a rather modest title.”

Gods, she hoped she wasn't blushing. While appropriate, it would have been embarrassing, especially in reaction to what were essentially just formal courtesies. She was sure that every female Martell in history had been given that nickname.

“You flatter me, Your Grace”, she replied, glad to realise that her voice sounded strong. “I have heard much of you as well, and I am looking forward to see if tales of your abilities as a knight and a musician are true.”

“I will do my best not to disappoint.” Behind him, Arthur Dayne had entered, who Elia hadn't seen since they'd both been children playing in the Water Gardens, although she knew his sisters well.

“I would like for us to speak amongst ourselves”, the prince said after she'd greeted her uncle, exchanged pleasantries with Ser Arthur, and received condolences from all sides. “Would you join me on a walk along the tourney grounds, princess?”

It was a medium-size tournament, Oberyn had told her, though larger than any of the ones Elia had attended in Dorne. The grounds outside the castle were filled with a sea of tents in all colours, shields hanging outside to signify the knights and lords inhabiting them. The most high-ranking visitors and participants also had rooms within the castle, but still used tents for their squires and weaponry.

While they walked, everyone they passed stopped their activities to briefly bow to the prince. Elia was used to this to a certain extent, of course, but far more conscious of it now.

It would be strange to be queen.

“The lots have been drawn”, Rhaegar said. “If we both emerge victorious in the first two jousts, I will face my lady's brother. The last time this happened was many years ago, when we were both squires.”

“So I have heard”, she replied. “When he returned to Sunspear, Oberyn would not stop speaking about how he had knocked the Prince of Dragonstone to the ground. I do hope you best him this time, Your Grace; else neither of us will ever hear the end of it.”

“Oh, rest assured that I am planning on it.” She had her hand on his arm, in that courtly and non-Dornish way, and was very conscious that this was a show confirming their betrothal as much as it was a conversation between the two of them. Here they walked, together, past a significant portion of the lords of the realm, half the Kingsguard and Oberyn behind them.

“There are some extremely important matters we must discuss, my lady”, the prince said, “although we cannot do that here. I trust that Oberyn has filled you in?”

“He has.” And the prince was right that it would be terrible idea to speak of it surrounded by this many people – talk of great alliances and the future, verging on treason. Also, a prophecy she was not certain actually meant anything, although it seemed to be highly important to both Oberyn and her betrothed.

“Until we have the opportunity for such a conversation, there are a few things I can already tell you, however.” She looked at Rhaegar, which did take a bit of effort; his otherworldliness was disconcerting. “After the wedding, we will undertake a short journey to Summerhall, and then live on Dragonstone”, he announced.

Two places heavy with history. “Summerhall”, she repeated. Where Oberyn had dispatched a few of his most trusted guards. “I heard it is still beautiful.” And, apparently, had become some sort of secret place where the prince could hold clandestine meetings and work his sorceries. Oberyn loved it.

“There is beauty in ruins”, the prince replied. “I should like for my wife to see it. It is the place of my birth, after all, and more full of life than one would think.”

He meant to do some magic on her, she realised. Hopefully, he'd know what he was doing. “I would be delighted”, Elia said. “And you believe it to be wise to remain away from court for the time being, Your Grace?”

“Without a doubt.” Bending his head down to be closer to her ear, he explained: “The Red Keep is a dangerous place, full of treachery and deceit. I would not like you to be subjected to it in these trying times, and truth be told, I have been looking for an excuse to leave for a long time.” The prince straightened his neck again, adding: “Dragonstone has a dark reputation, but I believe it undeserved. It is a good place to learn about my House, and of course, you may take any ladies you wish to keep you company. Prince Lewyn will join us as well, together with Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, if my father should allow it.”

_If_. There was exactly one problem Elia had with this match, and it was the king – not that she could mention this here and now. “I am certainly looking forward to meeting the queen”, she said instead. “My lady mother was always very fond of Her Grace.”

“She is delighted with the match.” Before them, Elia could see the royal tent, black and red and larger than the others, and right next to Oberyn's. “She was also devastated by Princess Mynara's passing, and wishes you to know that she shares your family's grief.”

“That is very kind.” They stopped before Rhaegar's tent and he turned to her, briefly grasping her hands in his. Standing this close in front of him was startling. Elia could tell how his hair framed his face just perfectly, and that he smelled of frankincense and roses, and that his dark purple eyes were looking at her with a warmth she hadn't expected.

“You must excuse me, princess”, he said. “I will need to assure that my squires have not made a mess of things. We shall see each other at supper.”

Close to mesmerised, she nodded. “Of course, Your Grace. I am glad we have been able to speak before.” They let go of each others' hands, bowed and curtsied, and then he was gone, tall frame and silver hair disappearing into his tent.

“What do you think?”, Oberyn said, suddenly next to her. Elia shook her head, feeling as if she was slowly being released from some sort of spell – then, she realised that this could actually be the case.

“He is so _beautiful_”, she said. “It is too much. I could be clad entirely in cloth-of-gold and would still look plain next to him.”

“Do not do yourself such a disservice.” Her brother was grinning, obviously happy that they had met. “Besides, would you rather your husband were ugly?”

“Well, no, but -” She sighed. “It is intimidating. He does seem very courteous as well.”

“Oh, he is. And many other things.” Oberyn hooked his arm under hers and began to lead her back to the castle, the Kingsguard melting away behind them. “You will get along well, I promise. Out of all my friends, Rhaegar is the least like me.”

Over the two days of the tourney, Elia realised that being betrothed did have its advantages. Not only because she was to wed the heir to the throne – which meant that everyone was treating her more as a princess of the realm than a princess of Dorne – but also because no other men attempted to get close to her, no ladies gave her jealous stares when she exchanged empty pleasantries with their intendeds, and she knew exactly how to behave at the tourney.

She had feared that it could have been seen as rather tasteless for her and the prince to first appear together at an event honouring the memories of the late Lord and Lady Baratheon, considering that they'd died when returning from a journey to find Rhaegar a bride. Lord Robert, however, seemed to take no issue with her presence, rather talking at length about how much he was looking forward to one day meeting his own bride; the Stark girl. He even had a painting of her he liked to show around, a pale young girl with brown hair and grey eyes, though this was as much as Elia was willing to believe of her appearance. Such portraits tended to exaggerate the beauty of their subjects.

Elia also got to know her betrothed a bit better, if only in public, and mostly at the feasts in the evenings. He truly was courteous, though often quiet, and seemed content with letting the more boisterous characters – Oberyn and Lord Robert most of all – take up the largest part of the attention. She could see him watch, however; eyes darting back and forth to observe the most minute of interactions, barely leaning in this and that direction to catch snippets of conversation. After a while, they began an unspoken game of watching each other, and catching the watcher. Sometimes when their eyes met, he'd give her a small smile that made her heart flutter much more than she cared to admit, even to herself.

When the feast wound down the first evening, calls came up for the prince to sing. He put up some resistance that Elia thought very obviously feigned, then quickly had one of his squires fetch his harp. It was a small one that fit in his lap; easy to transport, the wood covered in silver leaf.

Oberyn had warned her, but she still hadn't been ready. A princess of Dorne didn't cry; not in public – usually. In Elia's defence, half the Round Hall was weeping by the time the prince had finished his songs.

The jousts themselves probably made Elia most glad of all that her betrothal was done, since this made everything so easy. She'd consciously brought a long, richly-died band with her, orange and embroidered with the sun and spear of her House. As expected, the prince requested her favour, and she could tie the band around his lance. When they rode, she knew she could cheer for both Rhaegar and Oberyn, until they did indeed face each other. Then, of course, she threw her support behind her betrothed, both because she knew it would look good, and because Oberyn really could use a defeat.

After they'd both broken five lances, Rhaegar knocked him to the ground. “Oh please, Your Grace”, he called out after the prince had helped him to his feet, pointing at her with an exaggerated flair. “You are not yet wed, and you have already turned my sister against me.” He said it with a smile, making clear to all it was good-natured.

“You are right to be offended, my lord”, Rhaegar said. “It is only because of your sweet sister that I had the strength to unhorse you.”

Elia thought they were all doing good work of portraying a happily betrothed couple – and that maybe, it wasn't only a pretence.

The three greatest riders at the tournament were, without a doubt, Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Arthur Dayne, and Prince Rhaegar. All others were defeated by them, including Lord Robert and Ser Jon Connington, who Elia made an effort to be friendly towards during her stay at Storm's End, having heard from Oberyn that he was hopelessly in love with her betrothed – and thus, very slow to warm to anyone else who threatened to get close to the prince. Connington did not seem too taken by her, either, which was no surprise.

In the end, Rhaegar bested Ser Arthur, then made it into the champion's tilt, only to be unhorsed by Ser Barristan. Elia would've liked to be crowned queen of love and beauty, but it was nothing she couldn't live with.

Before that evening's feast, her uncle Lewyn picked Elia up from her chambers and led her out to the tourney grounds, to the prince's tent. Around them, some of the lesser participants – hedge knights and the like – were beginning to pack their belongings.

Rhaegar's tent, however, still stood. The large flaps were open, showing the prince sitting inside with Oberyn and Ser Arthur, while his squires, Ser Oswell Whent, and now her uncle remained outside, doing ostensibly casual things in strategic locations surrounding the tent. Lewyn stood guard at the entrance, Ser Oswell was sharpening an array of weapons a third of the way around it, and the squires were playing at cards on the other side.

The intent was clear. All passing by would see that they would be having a perfectly proper conversation in the presence of her brother and a knight of the Kingsguard, but none would be able to come close enough to hear the words being spoken.

“Wine, princess?” Before she could answer, the prince had handed her a crystal glass filled with what had to be Arbor Gold, and pointed at an armchair with crimson velvet cushions. “I must apologise. I usually do know better than to serve wine from the Reach in Dornish company, but Lord Redwyne had his squires bring two casks to this tent last night, while your brother did not.”

The tent was luxuriously furnished, though not ostentatious. Among the items one would usually expect stood the prince's black armour with its dragon helmet, giving the appearance of another man in the room. A recently emptied bathtub was drying next to a brazier, and the air smelled of frankincense, just as the prince had the day before.

Oberyn snorted, sitting on an ottoman. “Mayhaps that is because I do not feel the need to stoop to open bribery.” When she raised her eyebrows, certain that he was far from above that, he shrugged. “You are already getting Elia. There is nothing greater Dorne could offer.”

Ser Arthur, standing by the entrance, was shaking his head. “Do my own sisters speak of me in such glowing terms?”, he asked her. “I would hope so.”

“Rest assured they do, ser”, she said, not even having to sweeten the truth. “Both Ashara and Allyria miss you dearly. I would like to bring Ashara with me to Dragonstone, in fact, so you may see more of each other soon.”

Prince Rhaegar had taken a seat next to Oberyn, which made Elia realise that he'd given her the place that should be his. “Please, my lady, bring along any companion you wish”, he said. “I fear you will already be thrust into a difficult situation, and I wish for you to not be constrained to my company alone. I have been told I can be very”, he looked at Oberyn, “_gloomy_.”

While her brother confirmed that Rhaegar was indeed miserable to be around, Elia couldn't take her eyes off the prince. He did have an intangible air of sadness around him, but she thought that it probably only contributed to his appeal. “I am certain I will find a way to tolerate your company, Your Grace”, she said. “If all else fails, you can just sing for me.”

She had a sip of the wine, which was indeed too sweet. Nothing would ever make her understand why the Arbor vintages were so priced.

Ser Arthur pointed out that this wouldn't cheer her up, either, and the prince sighed. “Regrettably, gloom must be what dominates this conversation, too”, he said, then looked at her directly with serious (and distractingly beautiful) eyes. “I will not lie to you, Princess Elia. My father the king is a difficult man – oft unpredictable, but consistently vengeful, and unhappy to have agreed to this match. He is the reason we will be at court as little as possible. I dread he would not treat you well.”

She needed another sip at that. “I have feared as much”, Elia replied. “His Grace's nature is well-known.”

“And that is part of the problem.” Rhaegar looked down at the cup he was holding in his own hands, but hadn't drunk from. “You are aware of the situation at large”, he said. “I am not planning on sitting by idly to see half the lords of the realm plot against my House, while my sire gives them more and more reason to do so.”

Elia's breath caught. Those were bold words. She wanted to know _everything_, and now, but was aware that the prince wouldn't be able to tell her great secrets even in this setting. “What do you require of me, Your Grace?”, she asked instead.

“Trust”, he replied. “You know me not, my lady, but that will change. Your counsel, too. I have a tendency to get carried away on single-minded pursuits, and I have heard”, he nodded to the unusually quiet and serious Oberyn, “that you have a great mind for politics and practicalities. I will need your support.”

She blinked rapidly, concealing her smile with another sip of wine. She'd always wanted a husband who would want more of her than heirs, though she'd thought that any man from outside of Dorne would require some convincing. “I shall do my best”, she said.

“Then you may begin now.” Rhaegar looked grim. “Varys.”

“Yes”, she said. Oberyn had told her much of him. “Have you heard more by now?”, she asked her brother. Last time they'd spoken of the spymaster, he'd still been waiting for replies from the East, which took a long time due to the secrecy of his communications.

“I have.” Oberyn didn't look any more cheerful, either. “In Pentos, he is known for his partnership with a magister called Illyrio Mopatis. They have grown quite rich on acquiring and selling secrets.”

Elia considered that. “Are they extending their business venture to Westeros?” The royal court would be the perfect place, even though it was an incredibly dangerous undertaking.

“Worse, we believe.” Oberyn had emptied his cup of wine with an expression of theatrical disgust, and now refilled it. “Archmaester Marwyn knows of Varys as one with a deep hatred for magic, which will not endear our prince to him.”

“There is no doubt that he knows of my pursuits”, Rhaegar added in. “I have never kept them a closely-guarded secret. The archmaester thinks Varys could be working with the other maesters, though we also have reason to believe that there is more to it than that.”

“The other maesters and their plan to banish magic from this world?”, she asked, sceptical. It was a pet theory of Oberyn's – or at least, that's what she'd thought.

“Yes”, Rhaegar said plainly, and her brother looked at her with vindication. “It might not be that, however, in _this _case”, Oberyn said. “Marwyn, Rhaegar, and I have all had visions of a man connected to Varys, almost certainly Mopatis, embracing a black dragon.”

For a heartbeat, her glass threatened to drop out of Elia's fingers. “I thought the last Blackfyre had died twenty years ago”, she said. She'd only been a very small child during the War of the Ninepenny Kings, but it had taken place on the Stepstones, and its memory had remained in Dorne for a long time.

“The last male”, Rhaegar said. “If there is one thing history has taught us, it is that the pretenders will not give up. Should there be anyone left in Essos with Blackfyre blood and proximity to wealth and power, they will press their claim, however weak – or be used by those wishing to gain control of Westeros through them.”

Elia nodded slowly, swirling her wine around in her cup. The entire Blackfyre cause had been born out of anti-Dornish resentment, and their rebellions were never good news for her people. A time when a Targaryen prince took a Martell to bride once again was likely a good opportunity for them to begin yet another attempt. Ironic that whoever could still carry their claim would have to base it on the female line; that was quite a Dornish thing to do.

“Is there any reason to suspect that Varys has anything to do with the Blackfyres beyond”, she tried not to sound too disparaging, “visions?”

“No”, Oberyn admitted. “Nevertheless. Three visions, all independent of each other. And even if they were not true, Varys would still be dangerous.”

That, she couldn't argue with. “The question, thus”, Rhaegar said, “is what is to be done with him. Your brother urges I let him use poison, which I would rather not. Among other reasons, it would likely exacerbate my father's paranoia if Varys was to die suddenly, while he might catch on if something more slow were to be used. At the same time, the king would likely brand me a traitor if I had Varys arrested.”

She could see the problem. The only way to remove someone like that was to kill him, but how to kill in a way nobody could foresee, nor trace back to them? Especially if he had Aerys' ear, who would certainly suspect something?

“Is there no way of discrediting him in the eyes of the king?”, she asked. “Forge some sort of evidence that he is connected to the Blackfyres, for instance. A letter to that magister.”

“I am afraid my father no longer trusts me”, Rhaegar said. “If it is my word against Varys', I doubt he would choose mine.”

That really wasn't good. “Perhaps he should find it himself, then”, Elia said. “It would require great subterfuge and secrecy, but if the evidence could be dropped somewhere for the king to stumble upon it...” Elia looked at the prince. “You know the Red Keep, Your Grace, and I do not. But it does sound like the safest way to depose of this Varys is to have the king do it himself.”

“Maybe.” He looked thoughtful. “A letter forged in his hand, a glamour so as to drop it where my father may find it, sight unseen...”

He hesitated for another moment, then nodded. “I shall think on it. Now.” He stood, gracing Elia with one of those smiles that always threw her off balance, and clearly finished with that topic. “I could not end my first opportunity to meet my betrothed without a gift.”

Oh, yes. That was to be expected, she supposed. Her ladies at Sunspear had been fantasising about what the silver prince might give her for weeks.

She wasn't sure where it had come from, but Rhaegar suddenly dangled a necklace in front of her eyes. It was made of white gold, the chain comprised of interlinking dragons with red and black eyes. The centrepiece was a large, translucent ruby, the metal mounting behind it displaying the Martell sigil.

Elia grasped the piece while Rhaegar was still holding it, and turned it around. The mounting was strangely thick, and a mechanism was visible at the back. When she pressed it, it opened to show an emerald, a strange sigil cut into the stone.

“Thank you, Your Grace”, she said, looking up at the prince. “This does not appear to be a simple piece of jewellery.”

“It is not”, he said, smiling. “It is dedicated to the Maiden, so that She may protect you.”

Elia closed the mechanism, hiding the emerald from sight. “A most thoughtful gift, my prince.”

He stepped behind her, and Elia gathered up her hair to let him close the necklace. She only rarely wore anything but yellow gold, though this should stand out strikingly against her skin.

The prince's fingers brushed her neck, and she tried to ignore the goosebumps it caused. “Beautiful”, Oberyn said, standing up. “We must return to the castle now, or we will not be ready in time for the feast. I would be so disappointed if I were to miss any moment of Lord Robert talking about Lyanna Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well _someone_ has a crush.  
Since everyone who remembers Rhaegar in the books has to go on about how extremely good-looking he was, that'll necessarily come up here as well. I don't make the rules; he is just that hot.
> 
> There probably were several tourneys at Storm's End, and it's not really clear which one was which – one seemed to have happened before Lord Steffon died, the other one after. (Or, more likely, GRRM got confused and messed up.) 
> 
> The whole Varys/Blackfyre thing is obviously not confirmed, but I quite like it. Of course, if fAegon is Illyrio's son by Serra, and she a Blackfyre descendant, then that whole thing would play out very differently in a world where the rebellion never happened – possibly not at all. Either way, Illyrio and Serra wouldn't even have met yet, so seeing him with a black dragon is more of a future vision.


	8. 279 AC - Lyanna

_Winterfell, the 7th moon of the year 279 AC_

Exhausted, Lyanna laid down her stick behind the stone she used to hide it. “You're getting better”, she told Ben. “Still not as good as me, but you are learning.”

“Well, you're not nearly as good as Bran or Ned”, he replied, stoving his stick under a mound of snow. “And if you ever tried to pick up a real sword, you'd see that it's much too heavy for you.”

“We could find out”, she said, leaving the godswood, “if Father would let me use one.”

“Honestly, you're lucky he lets you use a lance.” Lyanna snorted, but knew that Ben wasn't even wrong.

Once they'd left the godswood and hurried inside the castle through the thickly-falling snow, she spied Ned leaving the armoury.

“There you are”, Lyanna said sharply, and waved Ben away. “Come.”

With that, she turned around and walked, him following behind her in silence. Only after they'd crossed the guest house and briefly went through the snow to the library tower did he ask: “What is this about?”

She didn't reply, instead walking up to the library, and turning to Ned with her arms crossed when the heavy door fell shut behind them.

“I've heard some gossip about your good friend Robert Baratheon”, she said. “They say he has a bastard daughter in the Vale.”

It was plain on Ned's face that he couldn't deny her. He sat on a chair between two rows of bookshelves, and sighed. “A babe called Mya Stone. The girl exists, yes. Her mother is a commoner, and she will be no threat to your children.”

Lyanna sat, too. “That is not what I am concerned about. Do you believe that a man like that would ever keep to one bed?”

“Lya.” Ned put his arms on the small desk between them, looking at her intently. “Many men father bastards before they are wed. It says nothing about how he will behave once he has a wife.”

She leaned back in her chair. “Do you have any bastards?”

“What?” He was offended, now. “Of course not. It is dishonourable.”

“Exactly.” Realising she'd trapped him, Ned shook his head. “Robert will love you, and then he will stay faithful. He's already half in love with you now, and that's only from the portrait and the stories I've told him.”

“Love is sweet, dearest Ned”, she said, “but it cannot change a man's nature. And if he thinks he loves me long before we've ever met, then that is no true love.” She leaned forward, too, face close to his. “He will dishonour me.”

Ned sunk back, mouth pressed into a thin line. “He will not, Lya. Besides, what is there to do? You are betrothed. You must do your duty and wed him, just as he will do his by remaining faithful.”

She did not believe that at all, but it wasn't even her biggest problem. What could she even say? _I can't marry him because the gods say I should wed Prince Rhaegar_?_ Even though we're now both betrothed to other people._

Father and Bran would go south for the royal wedding, which was to take place early in the next year. Lyanna had no idea what to do.

“I'm sorry, Ned”, she said. “But please leave.”

He gave her a long, measuring look, then stood and clasped her shoulder before making his way outside.

Lyanna stared at the desk for a moment, then turned to one of the bookshelves and took out a stack she'd consciously placed with the song collections and legends, far from anything of interest to Maester Walys. In it was every account of the Long Night she'd been able to find in the library, and the notes she'd taken when listening to Old Nan tell her tale.

None of it had proved very enlightening so far. With a sigh, she shoved the books and parchments aside without having even opened them, and reached inside the pouch around her belt. In it were her runes – which she had carved herself from the bones of a wolf before painting them with weirwood sap. She still hadn't consecrated half of them, however, since each required spending a whole night of prayer and sacrifice in the godswood. It was too cold for that now, and she couldn't get a hold of some of the necessary sacrifices.

Lyanna still often used her mother's runes for that reason, or sometimes Bran's, when he let her. But she didn't see why she couldn't use her own in a pinch.

_Show me_, she thought, letting the pieces fall around her hand in the pouch, _How can I prevent these marriages?_

Her fingers closed around one rune and she pulled it out, only to frown when she saw it. Logar – signifying chaos and the unknown. This one she had already consecrated, too.

“Great”, Lyanna said at the piece of bone, and grabbed another one, even though it could be meaningless. Jedryk; the harvest.

“Perfect.” She stared at the runes. “Something unknown will happen, and then there will be a result? Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

Unsurprisingly, they didn't answer.

“It is not unusual that you would feel trepidation about your marriage, dear”, her mother told Lyanna the following day. They were sat in the godswood, close to the now-frozen pond. “Many girls your age do. You have never met him, and you are unsure of his character.”

“I think I know some of it already”, she replied. “He has a bastard, for one. He also seems to believe he loves me, even though we have not met.”

“But you think to know him, even though you have not met?” Mother was slowly shaking her head with that kind smile Lyanna began to think patronising. “Ned swears he is a great man, and what would make you question that Ned has your best interests at heart?”

“Oh, I do not.” She ran her gloved hand over the ice. “What I am questioning is his ability to assess Lord Robert with a clear head. Ned said himself that he thinks of him as another brother. Love could be clouding his judgement.”

“Lyanna”, her mother sighed. “I do not understand what has turned you against him so. You have always seemed happy enough with the match. Is it _truly_ the bastard?” Lyarra's eyes bore into her, and she was sure that her mother could see clearly that her misgivings had nothing to do with the child at all. “Are you afraid he will mistreat you? You have a father and three brothers who would plunge the realm into war if he only looked at you the wrong way.”

“May I use your runes?”, she asked instead of responding to what her mother had said. “Just very quickly.”

Lyarra handed her the pouch, clearly curious. When Lyanna pulled out her hand, she held Ednos – faith, or trust.

“Alright”, she said, handing her mother back her runes. She had never told anyone about what she'd seen when her first moon blood had come, except for asking about the Others. “I believe the gods want me to marry another.”

Lyarra froze. “Why do you believe that?”, she asked, tone measured.

“I saw it.” Lyanna was starting down onto the pond, hoping that she did not sound like she was making an excuse. “First when my moon blood came, and then again in many dreams. _Green_ dreams, Mother, I am sure of it. The runes are saying the same, as is everything else. I can see myself with a babe, a young boy who looks like a Stark, and the father is not Robert Baratheon.”

“And who is it instead?” The way Lyarra was looking at her didn't bode well.

“I do not know”, Lyanna lied. She surely wouldn't be believed if she said it was the prince. “I can never see the father. But I _know_ it is not him, I can feel it.”

A thought struck her, though she would surely not tell her mother: she'd never actually seen them get married.

Which didn't have to mean that they _wouldn't_ wed, of course. “Dear”, Lyarra said, taking her hands. “It is very important that you marry Lord Robert. The agreement has been made, and we are all honour-bound to keep it. You have no younger sister to wed him in your stead, not even a cousin. If you did not do it, you could change everything for the worse.”

Lyanna wanted to scream. Who cared about the Great Houses' squabbles with the Iron Throne if a new Long Night was on the horizon?

But nobody would believe her, that she knew. _“Please”_, Lyanna said. “Please let me try _something_ to prove it to you. I don't know what I could do, perhaps we could cast the runes, or pray together -”

“The hunt”, her mother interrupted. “The men will be riding out on the morrow. We shall pray for a sign, and see what they bring back.”

Beyond her troubles with her own upcoming marriage, Lyanna also had to help prepare her father's and Bran's things for the royal wedding. While the men were on the hunt, she spent most of the day sewing and embroidering.

Stitching tiny silver direwolves along the hem of Lord Rickard's new white velvet surcoat, she had much time to think. All the other girls, daughters of the men of her father's household, knew better than to disturb her when she was in a mood such as this. Ignoring their idle chatter, all her thoughts revolved around the problem at hand.

Even if they both married the wrong people soon, she'd decided, that wasn't the end of all possibilities.

Lyanna knew that she should not wish for Lord Robert's death – and certainly not before their wedding, as her hand would just pass to his younger brothers. There likely was still time; she was not even six-and-ten yet. Of course, Renly Baratheon had only been born two years ago, so if both Robert _and_ Stannis died, there would be plenty of time -

She shook her head, forcing these thoughts out. Nobody should die, ideally. Least of all Elia Martell, who had no more choice in this than Lyanna did.

Could she live with being the prince's mistress, and bearing his bastard? Lyanna thought she probably could, especially as their child _had_ to be born. The others were a different question, however – not on his side, as Lyanna understood that the Dornish saw such matters differently, which might mean that his wife would be more ready to accept such an arrangement. But her own family, and her betrothed? With the way the realm stood right now, it could mean war.

If only she could _meet_ him. She'd begged to be taken along to King's Landing, citing the fact that Lord Robert would be present for the wedding, but Father had said no.

It was infuriating – to be sitting here in Winterfell and not be able to _do_ anything, Lyanna thought. All there was to do was pray, which she'd done again and again. Perhaps, a bigger sacrifice was needed.

The door to her room opened and her mother entered – which Lyanna only knew because all the other girls fell silent and stood to curtsey. She didn't look up, but kept on stitching.

“Has your lord father's surcoat done anything to you, my dear?”, Lyarra asked after a moment. “The way you are stabbing it, one would think it spat on your supper.”

She didn't reply, just looked at her mother and yanked the silver thread so hard it almost broke. Lyanna blindly pressed her needle through the fabric again and repeated the motion while their two sets of grey eyes stared at each other in a silent battle of wills.

Her mother reached into a pocket and pulled out a white square of fabric. When Lyanna didn't react, she placed it in her lap.

It was a handkerchief of what looked like the finest lambswool. “Your lord father and your brother will take this down south for your betrothed”, Lyarra said. “As a gift from you. I would suggest you embroider it with stags and direwolves.”

She wanted to grab it and throw it onto the floor, but knew that she was already stretching her mother's patience. She could envision what was expected – grey wolves, stags in black and gold; all that.

Knowing that all the other girls were watching, Lyanna took the handkerchief and carefully placed it next to her. “In due time”, she said plainly.

Then, they heard shouts coming from outside the gates, no doubt the hunting party on their return. The other girls ran towards the windows to see while Lyanna finally let go of her needle, and then she heard it: “A stag!”, the steward's daughter shouted. “They brought a whole grown stag, antlers and all.”

She almost laughed, and gave her mother a meaningful look. They'd got a sign, indeed.

It had taken a lot of convincing for the men to hand over the stag to them, but her mother had given it her best, and for that, Lyanna was begrudgingly grateful.

None of it was Lyarra's fault, anyway. As some of her father's men hauled the animal before the heart tree, blood leaving red traces in the snow where Bran's arrow had hit it, she felt increasingly guilty for having been so angry at her mother.

“It would be better if it was still alive”, Bran said, as if she didn't know. All three of her brothers were staying to watch.

“Yes, well.” Lyanna inspected the carcass – hit right in the throat by the broadhead, one of the antlers a bit damaged, but otherwise whole. “You could have somehow caught it alive, then.”

She gave her brothers a look telling them to all shut up, and a gentler one to her mother. They were on the other side of the pond, and she in front of the weirwood.

Holding the bronze and dragonglass dagger in her hand, Lyanna went to her knees, and stretched her hand over the stag to touch the tree. _Gods of the First Men, of my ancestors, of the North_, she thought with her eyes closed, _gods of all this land and more. Take the blood of this slain creature as my offering. I have asked you for a sign, and you gave it. Now I beg of you, gods, to help me convince my family that I cannot wed the Stag Lord; that it is your will that I bear the prince's child._

Opening her eyes, Lyanna stared into the weirwood's. The sap ran quickly.

She looked down at the carcass, lying on the side. She lifted the upper front leg and plunged the dagger into the stag's chest, through the thick skin and fat. As soon as she had cut a few inches across, a terrible stench emerged, and foul, thick blood began to run down her hand.

Lyanna was torn between needing to retch and wanting to smile. She continued, opening the stag's belly from its neck to its balls. Behind her, she could hear Ben complaining about the smell.

Both hands now covered in blood and guts, she lifted up what she'd cut open. “See”, Lyanna said. “This is what the gods think of this match.”

Her mother and brothers hurried to her side, and she could hear Bran curse. The stag's innards were black and brown and green and rotten, as if it had been killed too long ago. Its liver was swollen to three times the size it should be, its lungs small and shrivelled. The heart was grey, and the intestines crawled with maggots.

Without another word, Lyanna stood, and went to wash her arms and knife in the pond. The ice had melted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, the “love cannot change a man's nature” conversation occurs the evening after the betrothal between Robert and Lyanna is decided on, but that didn't really fit that well in terms of chronology and age in this story.


	9. 280 AC - Rhaegar

_King's Landing, the 1st moon of the year 280 AC_

At his wedding breakfast, Rhaegar received more gifts than he could count.

It was somewhat interesting, however. His father gave him a sword that they presumably both wished was Valyrian steel. It was well-made and had a beautiful hilt with a large ruby, but was not the most exalting present one could think of. As was traditional, his mother gave him her own wedding cloak, for Elia (Rhaegar had always wondered just why the queen had even been cloaked, considering she hadn't changed Houses, but hadn't pressed the point).

The following procession of gifts was telling, in the context of the times they lived in. There'd been an increasing division at court between those who favoured his father and those who were counting the days until Rhaegar would ascend to the Iron Throne, and this breakfast felt like the lords were to some extent announcing their choices.

Lord Symond Staunton, the master of laws, presented him with a small woven tapestry depicting the royal family after his wedding day. The queen, little Viserys, Rhaegar himself, and Elia all sat at his father's feet. The king towered high above them, larger than their figures, and much better groomed than he was in reality. Subtle, it was not.

The master of coin, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, gave him a book – about Aerys' heroic deeds during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. From many others of his father's supporters, he received presents verging on the underwhelming; all sorts of weapons and trinkets that were just expensive enough to be appropriate.

Lord Tywin, carefully neutral, gave him a beautiful golden brooch. Lord Velaryon, master of ships, surprised him with a dragon-shaped ring made of Valyrian steel and engraved with ancient glyphs; a much more splendid gift than he'd have expected.

And then, there were those professing to be on his side. A ridiculously elaborate chalice from Lord Redwyne, a splendid shimmering silken cape and silver belt from Lady Dayne, a chain with an enormous diamond within a golden seven-pointed star from Lord Hightower, a new destrier (waiting outside the feast hall) with armour, a saddle, caparison, _and_ an extravagantly decorated war lance from Lord Whent – a weapon more meant for ornament than use, in any case.

Rhaegar didn't want to assume the intent behind all gifts, of course. Hoster Tully gave him a large nightwood harp, Rickard Stark a drinking horn made from the horn of a Skagosi unicorn and embossed with bronze, Jon Arryn a live falcon, Robert Baratheon a mace too heavy for him, and Quellon Greyjoy a fine cloak of supple sealskin, the inside lined with crimson silk.

Doran Martell was most interesting of all. Rhaegar hadn't met him before, but Oberyn's descriptions made him think highly of the still-new Prince of Dorne.

Doran walked around the high table the Targaryens were sharing with the Martell men on this occasion, and placed a large tome in front of him. “I have heard of you as an avid reader, Your Grace”, he said as Rhaegar bent over the book, and the many people sitting below them were craning their necks to catch a glimpse. “A good quality in anyone, and especially the heir to the throne. So you may know your history, I have brought you one of only two copies of Maester Tolbert's _Of Fire and Sun._ It is an excellent account of the life and deeds of the two Martells and two Targaryens who brought Dorne into the realm, and I would advise you pay close attention to Daeron the Good.”

“A wonderful gift, my lord”, Rhaegar said, as he had many times before on this day. There was nothing controversial about the subject, of course – except that he hoped that his father would not understand the comment about Daeron II. “It is true that I have a great love of reading. I am sure this will be most illuminating.”

Prince Doran gave him a small bow and a meaningful look, then returned to his seat on the dais. Rhaegar could see Oberyn smile to himself. King Daeron, Second of His Name, had been a learned man, a friend to Dorne, and the son of a despised king.

“You are honouring my boy, Prince Doran”, Aerys drawled, and Rhaegar stiffened. “_Daeron the Good._ I do not blame you for commending your prince and good-brother, but none should forget that it was the second Daeron who started the whole Blackfyre business – and I who ended it.”

Rhaegar forced himself to smile and nod. It had been Aegon the Unworthy who'd legitimised the bastards, and despite his father's valour during the last war, it wasn't really accurate for him to claim all the credit.

Better to let him believe it was, however. That had been the reason for Varys' execution, after all.

“I would never doubt your achievements, my king”, Doran said. “I merely mean for the prince to draw inspiration from one of his great forefathers. The gods are good and I am sure that His Grace will not succeed you to the throne for many years, but he will be husband to a Dornish princess very soon.”

Aerys didn't seem to feel the need to argue with that. Rhaegar suppressed a sigh as the next gifts were brought before him, and considered Doran's words.

He would be a husband very soon, yes. He'd always known his wedding day would come, and yet, he'd always only thought of it in the abstract.

His wife-to-be had already shown herself to be greatly capable, he thought as he thanked Thoros of Myr for a beautifully illuminated parchment containing prayers to the Lord of Light. Back at Storm's End, Elia had been right about how to remove Varys.

It had taken much preparation and a lot of spellwork for Rhaegar to be able to make himself close to unnoticeable, but it had helped greatly. He'd asked the spymaster for several documents he'd had to write himself, and had spent hours upon hours practicing his hand.

In the end, he had only had to forge a short letter apparently meant to be sent across the Narrow Sea, stating that Varys had judged the king to be weak and easily lead, and that “the landing of the black dragon” would not need to wait much longer. He had followed the man around in the passages of the Red Keep for days until he'd found an opportunity to slip the letter onto the ground just as he left the king's presence; as if it had fallen out of his robes.

Watching from behind a tapestry, he'd seen his father pick it up. Its contents found fertile ground in his paranoid mind, and less than an hour later, Varys had been on his knees in the throne room professing his innocence.

Rhaegar had been horrified when Aerys had decided to execute him using wildfire. Varys' pleas for a trial fell on deaf ears – which had been expected, considering he was only a nameless eunuch from across the Narrow Sea with no support within Westeros.

He'd forced himself to stay and watch him burn. It had been his actions that had led to this, after all. Rhaegar had acted dishonourably to remove someone he thought _could_ be a threat, and having the image of Varys' melting flesh forever engraved in his mind was the price he'd had to pay.

Still, he had no real regret. He thought it likely that the Blackfyre connection had been real, and even if it hadn't been, Varys had undoubtedly constituted a threat to the realm. This way, the spymaster had been the only one to die.

His bride was beautiful, Rhaegar thought when Elia stepped through the doors of the Great Sept, Prince Doran at her side. Her gown was an impossibly delicate thing of ivory silk and Myrish lace, perfect on her slender form; her flowing black hair was covered by a headdress of gold and warm-toned gemstones. Facing her, he couldn't see her maiden's cloak in all its splendour, but he was sure it was made of painted silk.

It was strange. He'd always been able to appreciate the beauty of women, of course, and had enjoyed bedding the few ladies he'd had – even though he'd done it mostly out of intellectual curiosity. This was different. Perhaps it was because she was not only comely, but he'd also found her intelligent, witty, and of good character when they'd met. Perhaps it was simply because she was to be his wife. Perhaps it was the way she smiled.

By the time Elia was at his side, the singing in the sept had reached a crescendo. His mother and brother hadn't been allowed to be here; his mother's presence at the breakfast had been a rare enough exception to her confinement in Maegor's. Rhaegar thought it a shame, for she surely would have loved to see this. His father had declined to leave the Red Keep, too, but was not missed.

Seemingly every other noble in the Seven Kingdoms was there, however, filling the Great Sept to the brim.

“May the Father protect this couple, and let the groom act justly”, the High Septon said. “May the Mother give the gift of life, and mould the bride in Her own image. May the Warrior give them strong sons and the Maid fair daughters, may the Smith mend their hurts, may the Crone bless this marriage with wisdom. Let these two become one, and remain thus even after the Stranger comes to claim them.”

They said their vows. There were many, one for each of the faces of God, though Rhaegar could have recited them in his sleep. They were far from perfect, unfortunately; he'd have some suggestions for more appropriate interpretations of the Seven's role in a marriage – if only the High Septon were open to theological discussion.

Finally, it was time for Doran to remove Elia's maiden cloak. Rhaegar unfolded the wedding cloak he'd been holding, and replaced the orange silk with heavy black damask, the three-headed dragon made of rubies, crowns of onyx and black pearls forming the background.

Elia smiled at him when he closed the clasps around her shoulders. She appeared truly happy, which made him smile back, and he carefully pulled her hair out from under the cloak, letting the curls fall across it.

Rhaegar turned to the assembled lords and ladies. “With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife.”

“With this kiss I pledge my love”, she replied, her Dornish cadence filling the sept with warmth, “and take you for my lord and husband.”

He cupped Elia's cheek (her skin was very soft, he thought) and gently kissed her lips. She wore a heady perfume, smelling of citrus and spices.

There was a glimmer in her eyes when he pulled away. "Here in the sight of gods and men", the High Septon intoned, “I do solemnly proclaim Rhaegar of House Targaryen and Elia of House Nymeros Martell to be man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever. Cursed be the one who comes between them.“

As cheers sounded through the Great Sept, his bride beamed up at him, and he couldn't help but grin back. Rhaegar thought he might be happy.

Restraining his smile, he turned to the crowd and offered her his arm, leading Elia out of the sept behind Arthur and Prince Lewyn while a procession formed behind them. It should have been Ser Gerold at the front, but he was injured after he and Elia had been attacked by outlaws in the Kingswood on their way up from Dorne.

Once out on the plaza, they were greeted by the smiling statue of Baelor the Blessed, and a loud uproar from the adoring crowd.

Dutifully, they smiled and waved. It was a cold day with a biting wind coming in from the Blackwater and frost covering the ground, and Rhaegar could feel the chill through his black doublet and (rather ineffectual) scarlet cape. At least the heavy wedding cloak would keep Elia warm, he supposed.

A line was forming before them, and he realised it would be a long time before they got to return to the Red Keep. Lord Twyin was the first to congratulate them, Cersei on his arm, who was wearing a low-cut emerald gown and a very badly feigned smile.

“My sincerest congratulations, Your Graces”, Lord Tywin said, glancing at Elia with thinly veiled disdain. “A match well made.”

“Thank you very much, Lord Lannister”, she replied, smiling brightly. “And Lady Cersei, I must say you look especially radiant today.”

“And you make quite a pretty bride, princess”, Cersei replied, damning by faint praise. Before this could go further, Rhaegar cut in. “Thank you both for your well-wishes. We can speak more at the feast, but for now, I believe that Lord Merryweather is waiting his turn.”

They had no choice but to say their farewells. Elia craned her neck up to his ear. “I so wish my lady mother would have lived to see this.”

“To savour her victory?”, he asked. Before his bride could answer, Lord Merryweather was upon them.

After he'd said his piece, Elia responded. “Precisely. Lord Tywin injured her pride, and that is not something my House takes lightly.”

Rhaegar smiled at Ser Willem Darry as he approached them, saving him from needing to respond. The Martells were laying it on thick with the not-so-subtle warnings today.

Riding back through the cheering crowds, Rhaegar saw that his strategy of the last few years had borne fruit.

The people really did love him, judging by how often they shouted blessings and his name. Looking at it from an objective point of view, it was quite obvious – nobody liked his father anymore; they hadn't for years, and he represented the promise of a better future. Of course the _idea_ of him was appealing. The handsome young prince who regularly came down into the city to bring food, coin, and song – and now, with his beautiful bride by his side. It was unfortunate that they couldn't stay in King's Landing for longer, or they could've assured Elia the love of the commons.

The fest went well, mostly thanks to the king retiring early. After the torture of enduring 49 courses while sitting next to his father, his leaving lifted a weight off Rhaegar's shoulders. He had not addressed Elia once.

“Seven hells”, Oberyn sighed as soon as Aerys was out of earshot. “I have never spent three hours so tense.”

Prince Doran gave him a warning look. He had come without his Norvoshi wife, who had remained on Sunspear to look after their young daughter, and was with child again besides.

“In all honesty”, Rhaegar said quietly, leaning over the table so only his new wife and good-brothers could hear, “it is for the better if my royal father does not acknowledge you, my princess. If he did, he might be very unpleasant.”

The Martells exchanged looks between them. “How long do you intend to remain on Dragonstone, Your Grace?”, Doran asked.

“For as long as possible.” Rhaegar still wasn't sure if it would be better to stay at court or put physical distance between his father and himself in political terms, but leaving was undoubtedly the right decision in regards to his marriage. “Now”, he said, standing and extending a hand to Elia, “I believe it is time for us to dance, my lady wife.”

He'd always been a decent dancer, but she was better. There had to be other dances, too, with near every young lady at the feast – even Cersei Lannister, who Lord Tywin practically threw at him. It appeared that despite the fact Rhaegar had just been wed in front of half the realm, his father's Hand was not yet ready to give up on making his daughter queen.

After the dancing, he found his friends. Arthur was happily chatting with his sister Ashara, who had come up for the wedding and would join them on Dragonstone, while Richard and Myles tried to charm any maid willing to speak with them. Jon was in a foul mood, though Rhaegar didn't blame him. His father had fallen ill.

He also made an effort to meet those he didn't know. Most interesting were the Starks; Lord Rickard and his heir Brandon, who seldom made it south of the Neck. Brandon was a tall, broad-shouldered young man a few years younger than Rhaegar, with an apparent appetite for blood and women in the vein of a more gruff and hot-headed Robert Baratheon. Rickard was different; much more measured. Quiet, polite, and watching Rhaegar with something unnerving behind his eyes, Lord Stark made him feel as if he was looking right into him.

This was a man he could imagine being behind the forging of a great alliance.

After the feast had gone on for many hours, the calls for the inevitable began to emerge. Rhaegar had never liked beddings, but had little choice when he was swarmed by dozens of drunk ladies.

At least Elia should be safe from anyone taking too many liberties, he thought as he was pushed and shoved outside the throne room. None would dare to dishonour the wife of the heir to the throne, especially with both her brothers in attendance.

“Now, Your Grace”, Lady Staunton drawled while both she and Lady Chelsted fiddled with the fastenings of this doublet – not an easy task, considering that the mass of ladies was continuously pushing him through the corridors of the Red Keep. “Let us see what you've got hidden underneath this.”

“A tunic, my lady”, he said helpfully. Behind him, Lady Velaryon groaned. “I have heard you much wittier, Your Grace.” Suddenly, he was hoisted up and carried by the women, which certainly made it easier for them to undress him.

By the time they'd made it up to his quarters, Rhaegar was both very naked, and quite fed up. Despite the ridiculous phrasing, the suggestion to “give the girl the lord's kiss to make sure she's ready for the royal sceptre” was reasonable – while he was certainly _not_ going to “take the Dornish mare for a rough ride so she'd remember who's her master” (what problem did Lady Hightower have with Elia, anyway?).

Finally, he was thrown into bed at the same time as his equally naked wife. She had a beautiful body, he registered before commanding everyone _out_.

As soon as the door had closed, he turned to Elia, forcing himself to keep his eyes on her face, which was quite red. “Was it tolerable?”, he asked.

“Oh, Oberyn was walking five feet behind them with his hand on his sword”, she said. As he'd expected, then.

The raucous crowd remained right at the door. “Come on, good prince”, some very drunk lord shouted, “let us hear you play her like your harp.”

They looked at each other and had to laugh. “This is the most ridic-”, he began to say, and was cut off when Elia grabbed his head and pressed her lips against his.

Surprised but not at all opposed to this, Rhaegar sank into the kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like some cringey Westerosi sex banter. 
> 
> It's not entirely clear when the Kingswood Brotherhood attacked Elia and Ser Gerold Hightower, but it seems most likely that it would've been on her way to her wedding – that's when she'd have the Kingsguard with her for protection, and when she'd be likely to pass through the Kingswood on her way up from Dorne (not 100% sure why they wouldn't take a ship, though. Maybe Stepstones pirates).
> 
> In canon, Lord Velaryon supports Aerys against Rhaegar, though I've made him a bit more ambiguous here.


	10. 280 AC - Elia

_Dragonstone, the 10th moon of the year 280 AC_

Elia stood at a window on the highest floor of the Stone Drum; Dragonstone's tallest tower. A hand on her enormous belly (she'd never thought she could be this _big_), she looked out over the castle she'd called home for the better part of the last year.

Never before her wedding had she understood just why Rhaegar or her brother were so fascinated by magic. But then, her husband had taken her to Summerhall. The first night, there'd been an elaborate ritual to the Father and the Mother that had culminated in them making love in the centre of a large seven-pointed star on the floor – something she had thought blasphemous, until he'd reminded her that they were wed. The second night, there'd been Valyrian bloodmagic, which she could barely remember for the way it had dazed her. The third, they had simply wandered around the ruins, telling each other stories of their lives and families, Rhaegar singing her sweet songs.

Then, they'd come to Dragonstone. If what she'd experienced at Summerhall hadn't convinced her, seeing the castle certainly had. The Valyrians of old had been able to accomplish things they could not even imagine, and she was sure that Dragonstone was far from the most glorious thing they'd built – but how could anyone look upon what they'd been able to do and _not_ want to know how? The entire place looked like a lair of dragons, and this wasn't due to ordinary stonemasonry.

Behind her, the men were discussing the situation in the Kingswood, all huddled around that particular area of the Painted Table. Elia could still remember well how the outlaws had fallen upon them when she'd made her way up for her wedding, though in the end, Ser Gerold had fought them off, and had since recovered from his injuries.

“Jaime Lannister is making a name for himself”, Ser Oswell Whent told Rhaegar, and Elia turned back to the Painted Table. “There is much talk of knighting the lad soon, young as he is.”

“Good for him.” Her husband's fingers were drumming on the table, and Elia began making her way towards them. It was cold up in this room, she thought, even though she'd long exchanged her Dornish gowns for the fashions of the northern kingdoms. This one was made of bright red lambswool, a silver belt beneath her breasts only accentuating her belly, sleeves so long they almost touched the floor. She'd never looked more like a Targaryen.

“Lord Lannister would certainly be pleased”, uncle Lewyn said. He and Oswell were usually with them at Dragonstone, while Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur were busy in the Kingswood, and the other three remained in the Red Keep – or other two, in all reality, with Ser Harlan having been bedridden for years.

“There is barely anything in this world that could please Tywin Lannister”, she said, quite convinced that he was hoping for her death in childbirth so Rhaegar could finally wed Cersei. “What do we know of Jaime's possible betrothal to Lysa Tully?”

“Grave news on that front”, Lewyn said. The king regularly ordered him back to the capital, presumably so as to make her feel less secure, although it really only served to bring information to Dragonstone. “Lord Tywin has invited Lord Hoster to King's Landing.”

Rhaegar sighed. “If the Lannisters become part of this, then we will have a rebellion on our hands the next time my sire slights Lord Tywin. Unless, of course, we can sway them all.” He looked at Ser Oswell. “Have you heard from your brother?”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” They walked up the Painted Table, from the Kingswood past Blackwater Bay. “All great lords are either attending, or sending a son or brother, safe Lord Greyjoy.”

“Well, the ironborn are not fond of Harrenhal.” Rhaegar stared at where the castle sat right next to the Gods Eye, painted three-hundred years ago to still show it intact, before Aegon the Conqueror had come on Balerion. “It makes no matter”, he said. “Lord Quellon is no fool, and certainly not likely to oppose any solution that might be reached.”

Soon after their wedding, Rhaegar had confided in Elia that he wanted to call a sort of informal Great Council, so as to bring all great lords together and find a peaceful resolution to the problem that was the king. A tourney, he'd thought, though he couldn't find a pretext to hold one of the necessary scale to invite the entire realm.

It had been Elia's idea to have someone else hold it, and help in financing them if necessary. The Tyrells, she'd suggested, though then Rhaegar had found the answer in one of his most trusted knights: Ser Oswell's brother was the Lord of Harrenhal, which brought the advantages of being both absolutely enormous, and located towards the centre of the realm. Thus, the prince had sent Ser Oswell to visit his brother and propose the tourney, and Lord Walter had announced it shortly after – allegedly in honour of his daughter's name day. Rhaegar had provided him with a very handsome amount of money in order to make it all possible.

“That is all for now”, Rhaegar said after staring at the table for another moment. “Ser Oswell, please ask your brother to let us know who exactly will be attending. Prince Lewyn, I shall need you to see how the search is going.”

After quick bows, the knights took their leave. “This Kingswood business must end soon”, Rhaegar said, looking grim. “I shall need Arthur at Harrenhal. Jon, too.”

Elia placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him towards her. In simpler terms, the prince missed his friends – he'd knighted his squires by now and they were off on their own, Ser Arthur was busy fighting the outlaws, and Jon Connington had just become Lord of Griffin's Roost after his father's death.

“They will be with you soon”, she said, looking him in the eyes. “The Brotherhood won't last much longer, and Lord Jon will be able to leave as soon as he's settled matters and appointed a castellan.”

“I know.” He laid his hands on her belly, where they could both feel the babe kicking. She'd never forget the look on his face when it had first quickened. “And there will be another even sooner.”

They'd both seen it in the dragonglass – the child would come this week. The maester kept insisting she rest; confine herself to her chambers until childbirth, but they both agreed that this was both unnecessary and impractical. Elia was needed, and the idea of staying in bed for weeks was thoroughly unappealing.

Rhaegar's hand wandered up to the brooch she wore atop her heart, enchanted to help her pregnancy along. “I will be there”, he said. “Maester Mallon has delivered children before, but there is more to be done. Archmaester Marwyn has sent me some useful advice.”

“Will you use sorcery to help the birth?” She took his hand in hers, intertwining their fingers. “Because I am willing to accept _anything_ if it means less pain.”

“The Valyrians would sacrifice at least three slaves during every birth”, he said drily. “I will not go quite as far, though I would be willing to kill my horse if it came to it.” He placed a kiss on her hand.

“Well, I am glad I am worth that much to you”, she said, then looked towards the window. “Now, I believe my ladies are awaiting me. Would you be so kind as to assist me down the stairs, dear lord husband?”

“Certainly.” The size Elia was now, she couldn't see the narrow steps below her.

Two days later, it all came to pass.

It was Rhaegar who'd suddenly woken up, breathing heavily. “A dragon dream”, he'd said. “Of _dragons_, Elia. I am the blood of the dragon, and the one who must find them. How did I not see this?”

With that, he'd got up and disappeared from their (technically, only her) bedchamber. Part of Elia had been concerned, the other just wanted to keep on sleeping, but by then she'd felt the babe move so much that there was no more chance of that. What was more, a certain pain was beginning to set in, coming and going, as if her moon blood was nearing. She knew what this meant.

Once her small army of maids had finished helping Elia bathe and dress and brought her honeycakes and fruit to break her fast, her uncle Lewyn had hurried into the room, out of breath. “The prince has gone into the mountain”, he said. “And then came out, and he – he has _found_ them.”

She took care to chew and swallow the bite of pear in her mouth. “How many?”, she asked, taking a sip of mint tea.

“Three”, Lewyn said, and Elia nodded. Of course there were three.

Every since they'd got to Dragonstone, Rhaegar had been busy having the entire island searched for any dragon eggs that hadn't fallen victim to the tragedy at Summerhall. Until now, the search had been marred by the fact that nobody had been able to progress too deeply into the shafts of the Dragonmount the castle was built on. The passages were not only dark and narrow, but also unbearably hot. “Is he well?”, she asked.

“He came out drenched in sweat and in dire need of water.” Lewyn seemed a little put off by her nonplussed reaction. “The eggs were glowing from the heat. A few steps out of the cave, the prince suddenly noticed how hot they were, and dropped them into the sand.”

“Is he burned?” She had a spoonful of pomegranate seeds, looking like the small rubies on the bracelet she was wearing.

“He is not.” Her uncle was clearly still disturbed by what he'd witnessed, pacing the room. “Ser Oswell and I were trying to keep him from going in, but he kept talking about dreams. Then we wanted to join him, and he said we would just cook in our armour.” He rapidly turned to her, white cloak swirling around. “His palms are a bit pink, perhaps, but that is it. Do you understand any of it, niece?”

She shrugged, picking up a honeycake. “There is nothing to understand. Where is he now?”

“Coming back to the castle. His Grace just sent me ahead to inform you -”

“He will want me to see”, she said, grabbing onto the table to stand up. “Please help me down into the courtyard, dear uncle. It would be a terrible irony if I were to fall now.”

Taking the honeycake with her, Elia slowly made it down the Stone Drum. The lower levels of the castle were always pleasantly warm, thanks to the high walls and the heat of the Dragonmont, and no snow could reach the ground. Her lower back hurt, however, and she really wished she'd used the privy before making her way down.

In the courtyard, Rhaegar was just getting off his horse. Whatever he had worn before, he had stripped down to his tunic and breeches, which were both just as soaked as his hair. He looked exhausted, too, but he was beaming.

“Elia!”, he shouted, near running towards her with his saddlebag flung over his shoulder. “They were there, as I had dreamed. I -” He reached her, taking her face in his hands, speaking quickly and quietly. “I walked down into the mountain, using stairs I'd seen in my dream. It was _hot_, and there were glowing veins streaking the stone and now my boots are half burned.” She looked down to see that they had, in fact, been reduced to charred bits of leather barely clinging together. “But then I found the eggs in a pile of bones”, Rhaegar continued, staring at her with such intensity that she almost kissed him in front of everyone. “There was a large opening in the mountain above, perhaps that was how the dragon entered; I believe they might be Syrax'.” He let go of her to show her the contents of his bag.

There they lay, three beautiful ovals covered in scales. One was black and red, another green and bronze, the last cream and gold. Elia stretched out her hands to touch the cream one, and felt that it was hot, though not unbearably so.

Just then, pain shot through her, beginning at her back and moving to her abdomen, much stronger than it had during the rest of the morning. Elia staggered back, and found Rhaegar holding her by her shoulders. “Are you unwell?”, he asked.

She shook off his hands, forcing herself to take deep breaths. “I am”, she said, taking a few steps. Suddenly, her padded woollen gown seemed far too warm. “Though I believe that the time is coming close.”

Rhaegar's demeanour shifted. “Prince Lewyn, carry my wife back to her chambers”, he commanded, then told a page to fetch Maester Mallon, and someone else to wake Ashara and the other ladies, in case she wanted them before labour truly set in. Another man was sent to ride down to the village and have the wet nurse with her babe moved into the castle, and the septon was to be informed, too.

Just as Lewyn picked her up, making it seem like she wasn't as huge and heavy as she felt, another contraction hit Elia, this one more painful than the last. “Uncle, let me down”, she said through gritted teeth. Rhaegar was still ordering people around, so Lewyn complied.

When her feet hit the ground, she felt the next sign she'd been told about. First there was the lightest trickle, and then a gush of water running down her legs. Elia yelped in surprise, which drew an uncomfortable amount of attention. The light ochre of her gown showed the stains just too well.

“I do not think I can go back to my rooms”, she said, looking at Rhaegar in panic. “Even if it still takes many hours. The way up there -”

Gripped by another wave of pain, she held onto Lewyn's shoulder.

“The sept”, Rhaegar said, taking her by the hand. On Dragonstone, it stood at ground level, only a short walk from where they were. She nodded, and he led her along, shouting new orders – to clean out the sept, to bring any kind of pillow and blanket they had, to find everyone they'd ordered to her chambers and tell them to go there instead.

Pain not easing even as she was walking, Elia leaned on his shoulder. “All will be well”, he told her, arm around her waist. “Our child will be born before the faces of God. We will lay you down in front of the Mother, and I will assure we have Her blessing.”

It took ten hours.

Elia had always heard about how women forgot all the pain of childbirth the second the babe was placed within their arms. In the excruciatingly long time she spent first pacing, then lying down, and all throughout praying, she increasingly began to doubt that. How could anyone forget _this_?

Rhaegar was singing and praying and lighting YiTish jasmine incense and doing all sorts of magical things, which Elia appreciated most of the time, though she certainly had moments where she desperately wanted to take his harp and smash it against the statue of the Smith, so her husband could immediately pray He would fix it. On the other hand, she did have to admit that she saw the statue of the Mother with her silver-plated hair _glow_ at the heights of his rites, and that this always seemed to take place at the same time as her pain easing and the labour progressing. The brooch he'd made her long ago felt warm, in a comforting way, and Elia was clutching it most of the time.

Who she really got sick of, however, was Maester Mallon. With every “breathe, princess” and “push, Your Grace”, she wanted more to ask Rhaegar to return to his Valyrian roots and sacrifice the man to some dragon god. At least the septon was keeping out of it.

And then, _finally_, after her blood had soaked what seemed to be most if the linens on Dragonstone, it was done. The maester pulled the child free, and soon after, its cries filled the sept with life. Too exhausted to care about what would happen next, she sunk back, only to be gripped by more contractions as she dimly noted Mallon cutting the cord. The maester was too busy with the child to care much about her passing the afterbirth, though Rhaegar was there to hold her hand and kiss her forehead. And then, her daughter was placed on Elia's chest.

She barely looked human, Elia thought in a brief moment of alienation, before she blinked and _saw_ the girl, eyes dark like her own, wisps of black hair on her head. Very carefully, she lifted her shaking hand up to the babe's soft, tiny face, stared into her eyes and thought _you are mine_.

The moment was rudely interrupted by Maester Mallon's hands upon her abdomen, and the contractions' unwillingness to end. “Forgive me, Your Grace”, he said, looking almost frightened, and she realised what kind of look she must have given him. “These massages will help your womb shrink back.”

Elia did _not_ want to think about her womb for now, but needs must, she supposed.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”, the most graceful voice in the world asked.

She glanced up at Rhaegar, whose eyes kept darting back and forth between her and the child. “What should we name her?”

He carefully touched the babe's back, his skin much more pale than their daughter's. “Rhaenys”, he said. “The third.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dragon eggs look the same as Dany's because those are so iconic – although they can't actually be the same, in terms of where they were, and when (unless Illyrio somehow had someone do a Dragonstone heist). Anyway. It'll make sense later.
> 
> Also, the birth is, of course, somewhat sanitised (not that I've ever given birth, but I find the prospect pretty terrifying). Let's just say that magic/the Mother made the whole thing go a bit easier. It also means that Elia won't be bedridden for half a year, as she was in canon.


	11. 281 AC - Lyanna

_Winterfell, the 1st moon of the year 281 AC_

It was getting warmer.

Lyanna noticed this first when she stepped out from under one of the castle's many covered bridges and a drop landed on her head – an actual drop of water; not a snowflake. It had come from one of the icicles that had clung to the roof for the last two years, and she made note to tell the steward so that they could all be removed before they fell on anyone's head.

The heavy snows were occasionally replaced with sleet, and the courtyards had to be strewn with pebbles each morning as the water would freeze overnight. In the godswood, where it was warmer than anywhere else outside, the snow began to mix with mud underneath.

They couldn't be certain that it was the beginning of spring yet, Maester Walys had warned. The Citadel thought that the cold might return within a year.

Not that it seemed like Lyanna would see this. By the end of this year, she would likely be wed in the south. She supposed that the winters at Storm's End were far less severe.

The stag they'd caught a year and a half ago hadn't served to deter her parents. It had made them uncomfortable, and she believed they'd reconsidered – until they had declared that the match _had_ to be upheld, in the interest of war and peace and the great alliance. Lyanna had raged at them for days, but it hadn't changed a thing.

And then, she'd even heard that the prince and his wife had seemed quite taken with each other at their wedding, which didn't help. Even worse, they had a daughter by now.

Still, her dreams and visions remained. The cold and the Wall; ice and fire, her son defeating death itself. Sometimes with a woman at his side, beautiful and silver-haired.

This gave her hope – the gods' plans clearly hadn't changed, and nothing men did could foil them. Even more, she would soon be able to meet the prince himself.

Preparations for Lord Whent's great tournament were already underway at Winterfell, even though they wouldn't leave for moons. Lyanna and all her brothers would go; their parents would remain. After the tourney, where she was to get to know Lord Baratheon, they would travel to Riverrun to see Brandon wed Catelyn Tully. Lyanna wasn't actually sure if she was to return home at all – she'd spied something that looked suspiciously like a very elaborate cloak with the Stark colours being made, even though Lady Catelyn was to receive Lyarra's wedding cloak.

“Why isn't Ned betrothed?”, she asked after riding out with Bran and Ben one afternoon. They were just about to enter Wintertown.

“I assume Father wants to keep all possibilities open”, Bran said, waving down at two men herding a few goats along the road. “Perhaps he's hoping for Ned to find some southron lady at the tourney.”

“We cannot _all_ marry someone southern”, she said. “Hasn't Father been talking about Lord Ryswell and his daughters for years? I bet Ned will marry one of them.”

“As long as I don't have to”, Ben said. Wintertown began around them, still busy even as people were preparing to move back to their farms. “The Ryswell girls are too old for me.”

Bran snorted. “You don't know that”, he said. “But you might be right about them, Lya. I would hope Ned weds Bethany, then, though I heard Lord Rodrik is in talks with Roose Bolton about her.”

Lyanna shuddered at the name. “Didn't his wife just die? And what's wrong with Barbrey?”

“Yes”, Bran said. “And nothing. Nothing at all.”

His tone made her eyes narrow, and Lyanna glanced at Ben, who had ridden off a few paces to exchange japes with apprentices in front of the cobbler's shop. “What happened?”, she asked.

Bran couldn't lie to her, and so he didn't even try. “Nothing you must concern yourself with”, he said instead.

She groaned. From the times she'd met her, Lyanna remembered Barbrey Ryswell as comely, smart, and courteous – which meant that there had to be some other reason Bran wouldn't want his brother to wed her. She could just imagine what it was. “You are just like Robert Baratheon”, she said. “Imagine Father's face when some woman comes to Winterfell with your bastard.”

“There could be more than one”, he said with a grin that infuriated her. “Ben!”, Bran then called out, waving him closer. They were next to the Smoking Log; Wintertown's inn.

Lyanna brought her horse next to Bran's and stuck her face up in his. “I feel sorry for Lady Catelyn”, she hissed.

His glare matched hers. “Do you think I want to wed her?”, he asked. “I would happily take Barbrey. I have no choice in this, so I might as well do as I please outside the marriage bed.”

“Imagine if I acted like you”, she said. “I have even _less_ of a choice.”

“And who do you want to marry instead?” Ben was riding up to them, and could clearly see they were fighting, judging by the pained expression he wore.

_The prince_, she thought. “Anyone”, Lyanna said, then forced a misshapen smile on her face and raised her voice. “I assume you two will be drinking. As I will not be allowed to join, I wish you a nice afternoon.”

With that, she rode back to the castle.

While Bran and Ben were presumably drinking away their senses at the Smoking Log, Lyanna got to work in the godswood. Ned was at the Eyrie and would only join them at Harrenhal, her mother was busy in the castle somewhere (possibly working on her maiden cloak, Lyanna thought bitterly), and her father was hearing petitions in the Great Hall.

Earlier that day, while she'd been out riding with her brothers, Lord Rickard had been occupied with something very different. She thought it likely that these things were related; her not being in Winterfell and him dispensing the king's justice. As if she'd never secretly watched as Ice had effortlessly sliced through someone's neck.

The evidence of today's beheadings was obvious in the godswood. Five men had met their end today. From what she'd heard, one of them had been a repeat rapist, two murderers, and two deserters from the Watch. Their bodies had been taken away, but the blood remained; turning the muddy snow around the weirwood red and quenching the thirst of the gods, if only for a time.

This didn't happen very often, as crime was rare, and her lord father tended to wait for enough men to be available to make it a truly worthwhile sacrifice. She didn't know what he'd asked the gods to do afterwards, but Lyanna was not about to pass up on this opportunity.

She shed her gloves, hat, and cloak, standing before the heart tree in her boots and blue woollen gown, pulling free her dagger – not the bronze and dragonglass one, which wasn't hers alone, but a steel piece she'd attained after spending many a week cajoling the blacksmith. The hilt was made of wolf bone, just as her runes, and she'd carved in a few symbols by herself, darkening them with the ash of burnt weirwood leaves.

_Gods_, she thought with heavy intent while her hand touched the heart tree's face, _lords of stream and forest and stone, you who dwell in the trees – you ask much of me. To bear the child of the Dragon Prince when I am promised to another_ _-_

A shudder went through her. _Promise_, a thousand voices said, _what promise?_

_The promise of my lord father, Rickard Stark of Winterfell_, she replied.

The weirwood's sap ran thick and cold. _Stark_, they said, as they always did, and _Winterfell_, but also: _the promise of man_.

Lyanna found herself nodding. _I know. Not mine, nor yours. Still, honour must be kept and alliances preserved. I ask you, oh gods of my mothers and fathers and mine own, for help. It is a difficult task you give me, and I shall need any assistance I can gain. I will meet the Dragon Prince soon, and if I am to bear his child, I need to _-

As so often when she mentioned this, the images assaulted her. Lyanna still had no clear view of when exactly the Others would return, but it couldn't be any earlier than the moment her son was a man grown. What she did know, however, was that it would happen.

_Yes, gods_, she thought, as her mind's eye showed her small children being torn apart by the dead before their own eyes turned that terrible blue, _I know. This is why I ask you. Please. I cannot _do_ this on my own; you must help the others _see_;_ _the prince and my mother and my brothers and my father most of all. Else I will be in Storm's End, birthing new Baratheons._

_See_, the gods responded. _See._ Images of hundreds of men and women who looked like Lyanna standing in the same position, trees around them progressively younger, snow ever-deeper. Her ancestors on thrones, ruling Winter. Then flames, a city beyond compare collapsing in smoke and fire, men and women on dragonback, a young Valyrian man – the prince? – in a cave so hot the stone was glowing, picking up three large eggs from a pile of bones.

_The blood of Winterfell_, the gods said, _the blood of the dragon_.

Lyanna was beginning to grow impatient – she knew this by now; that wasn't why she was talking to them. _The blood of Winterfell_, the gods repeated.

Of course. Having five men loose their lives was not enough; it had to be hers, it had to be Stark. Keeping her left arm on the tree, Lyanna used her right hand to slide up her sleeve, and drag her dagger along her skin.

Blood mixing with the weirwood's sap and dripping down onto the roots, she felt warmth emanating from the tree. _See_, the gods said, _they will see_.

Relieved, she made to clean up, but was hit with one more image before her hand left the trunk. She saw a couple under a different weirwood, one with a particularly angry face, and other marks as well. It was a clear night under a full moon, the couple two naked bodies closely intertwined, and quite clearly her with the prince. The way they were moving was terribly indecent -

Blushing, Lyanna let go.

Just before she could enter the Great Hall for supper, she ran into Bran at the door, which was convenient. Lyanna stopped just before him to stare up the two heads he was taller than her, hands on her hips.

Bran crossed his arms, a slight smirk on his face.

“I'm sorry”, she said, taking care to still sound angry. “I have no right to chide you for whatever you do with the Ryswell girl.”

“You weren't wrong”, he admitted, saying it like an accusation. “I am a man betrothed.”

They silently stared at each other. Bran cracked first, unable to stop himself from smiling, and Lyanna relaxed her posture. “I will knock you off your horse tomorrow”, she promised, then turned to walk up to the lord's table.

“You?” Bran followed. “A girl half my size? I think not.”

“That is what will make it all the more embarrassing.” She'd come close to beating him before, though she suspected that he was taking it easy when they jousted.

The Great Hall was already decently full, and next to no one paid attention to their interaction as they walked up to the dais – except for their father, who looked at them with suspicion.

“Take care of your sister when you are down south, Brandon”, he said as they both took their seats, Bran between him and Ben, Lyanna next to their mother. “We would not want anyone to think that she does anything unladylike on horseback.”

Lyanna filled her cup with dark ale. “Not to worry, Father. I only ever ride out so I may write poetry about the beautiful flowers I see.”

Though her brothers chuckled, both their parents' looks made clear that her jape wasn't appreciated. “Sometimes I fear that we have given you too many liberties”, Father said. “_All_ of you must behave perfectly at the tourney, but that applies especially to you, Lyanna. You have a responsibility.”

He pointedly nodded at a servant to supply her with a slice of venison pie, and Lyanna cast down her eyes, chastised. She _knew_ that he was right, at least based on the information he had, and she couldn't tell anyone the entire truth unless she wanted them all to think her either mad or lying.

She'd contemplated just finding the prince as soon as the tournament started, telling him everything and hoping he'd believe her, and then riding off together. Or maybe, she should just – try to seduce him?

The thought almost made her laugh, and Lyanna disguised it with a sip of ale, dimly aware that Ben was telling some sort of story he'd heard at the Smoking Log. Yes, of course, the skinny Northern girl with the long face could seduce the heir to the throne away from his beautiful Dornish wife.

Her being pregnant without explanation would cause almost the same trouble as them running away together anyway, she thought with a small bite of pie, while someone deposited buttered carrots on her plate. At least, she knew from all her visions that her son would look like her. Perhaps, nobody ever had to know he was the father?

The idea of giving Robert Baratheon horns when he was the father of doubtlessly countless bastards had something to it. But then again, she'd always seen the prince _with_ her child, so that couldn't be it.

Father's low chuckle meant that Ben had finished telling his story, and she grinned as if she'd paid attention.

All of this was complicated by the politics of it. Bran had told her that he and Father believed that the tournament could be some kind of pretext used by the prince to call a Great Council; that they'd taken the measure of him at his wedding and thought him to be even more sick of his father than anyone else – although then, at least, her being with him could serve their alliance quite well. If only he wasn't married already.

She gave a frustrated sigh, which was promptly noticed by her mother.

“Would you rather eat something else, dear?”, Lyarra asked with a glance at her largely untouched food. “Some salmon? They made it with lemon and parsley.”

“That sounds delicious”, she said, not really caring. “The venison is not to my taste.”

She could've sworn she saw her mother roll her eyes. “These are exactly the kinds of comments you should refrain from at Harrenhal, sweetling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of time for Lady Barbrey.


	12. 281 AC - Rhaegar

_King's Landing, the 3rd moon of the year 281 AC_

“May the Stranger guide Ser Harlan to the other world”, the High Septon said, “where the Father will judge him wisely.” He began to intone a hymn, and Rhaegar joined in, together with the rest of the castle sept.

Old Ser Harlan Grandison's white-cloaked body had been on display all day, ever since servants had brought him his breakfast in White Sword Tower and discovered he'd died in his sleep. It hadn't been much of a surprise to anyone after he'd spent years in his sickbed.

This had, of course, set the Red Keep abuzz. A new spot in the Kingsguard had opened, and one could almost hear the frantic scheming. Rhaegar had not yet decided who he would like to see take his vows, but he surely wanted to have a say in the matter.

After the hymn, the king gave a very unconvincing show of respect before the body, then Rhaegar followed with Elia on his arm. They'd come to the capital only a few weeks ago, mostly in order to present Rhaenys to his parents – though reactions had been mixed. The queen had been delighted, but Aerys refused to touch her, claiming she “smelled Dornish”. It had taken a while for Elia to calm down.

Looking down at the old knight, they both bowed their heads. His successor would have to be someone Rhaegar could trust, although it unfortunately couldn't be another Dornishman, with both Arthur and Prince Lewyn already in white cloaks. He had no doubt that Lord Chelsted and Lord Staunton were already whispering to his father about their useless sons, but that wouldn't do.

After the appropriate amount of time, they made way for the next mourner. On the morrow, Ser Gerold would lead the escort to return Ser Harlan's body to his family's keep in the Stormlands.

“That was a sobering end to the week”, Elia said as soon as they'd left the sept. “And to think it started so happily.”

Only a few days ago, the heroes of the fight against the Kingswood Brotherhood had returned victorious. The bandits were dead or at the Wall, most of the Kingsguard had new great deeds to their names, and many a new knight had been made – including Jaime Lannister, much to the barely expressed delight of the Lord Hand.

“I'd wager that good Ser Harlan's death has made many people very happy”, he said while they passed the Maidenvault, making their way towards Maegor's Holdfast. “Sad as it may be.”

“Well, half the Kingsguard loves you.” Elia nodded at a group of squires who stopped to bow when they passed. “If you can dissuade Ser Gerold from accepting someone distasteful to you, he will be able to convince the king.”

“Let us hope so.” They both flashed false smiles at Lord Staunton. “I will not endure this man's son to guard Rhaenys”, he added quietly.

“Nor will I. Oh, look who drew the wrong lot.” Elia smiled truly, now, as did Rhaegar. The entrance to Maegor's was being guarded by Arthur.

“Missing the service?”, Rhaegar asked when they'd got to the drawbridge.

“I have paid my respects.” Arthur glanced behind him at the entrance, and lowered his voice. “Her Grace would have liked to be given the same opportunity.”

Almost as much as his mother doubtlessly would like the opportunity to breathe fresh air and feel the wind on her skin, Rhaegar thought. “I assume Rhaenys could cheer her up?”

“Very much so. Ser Oswell is with them.”

Rhaegar nodded. “We shall need to speak on the matter of your next brother”, he said quietly, before taking Elia along into the Holdfast.

“Rhaegar!”, Viserys shouted, excitedly running up to him with a wooden sword in his hand. “Look what Ser Oswell taught me.” He took a swing at an armchair that wasn't too shabby for a five-year-old.

“That is very impressive, Your Grace”, Elia said. “You will be a fearsome warrior one day, just like your brother.”

Hearing himself described that way made Rhaegar want to laugh, though Viserys beamed. “I will be like Aemon the Dragonknight!”, he declared and was about to run back to Ser Oswell, who stood next to a training dummy in a separate room they could see through an open door. At the very least, his brother's apartments were spacious enough, which only slightly offset the fact that he never got to leave them.

“Viserys!”, their mother said behind him, sitting by the window with Rhaenys on her lap. “Your good-sister has just said something kind. What do we say to people when they are being kind?”

“Oh.” Viserys stopped in his tracks and gave a small bow. “Thank you, Princess Elia.”

His wife nodded in recognition, and Viserys was free to run back to training. “He is so much wilder than you were that age”, Rhaella said, then addressed Elia. “Rhaegar did not care about hitting anything, nor for running around. He could already read very well at that age, however, and wanted to do little else.”

“That sounds like he was not too much trouble.” Elia took a seat opposite Rhaella, and Rhaegar looked his mother over. She seemed happy enough with Rhaenys, but something had been bothering him about her ever since they'd come back. He couldn't quite work out what it was, as nothing had changed, outwardly – except for the fact that she'd taken to wearing scarves and gowns closing high around the neck. It couldn't be her dressing modestly due to her age, young as she was.

“Oh, he was very quiet.” Rhaella ran her hand through Rhaenys' thin black hair, smiling. “Just like this one. She has not cried once in the time you were gone.”

Rhaenys babbled something incoherent, grasping at Rhaella's silver necklace. Rhaegar grabbed himself another chair to sit by them, thinking that it was a pretty picture – his mother, his daughter, and his wife all together. “She has been very sweet”, Elia said, placing a wooden dragon in Rhaenys' hand so she wouldn't pull at her grandmother's jewellery. “Nothing like me, from what my lady mother told me.”

“Oh, you were fine, my dear.” Rhaella pointed at the toy and looked Rhaenys in the eyes. “That is a dra-gon”, she said slowly, to which Rhaenys reacted by shaking it. “I saw you often when you were still very young, and I a princess. Your brother Oberyn was a terror, so you seemed very calm next to him.”

“That has not changed”, Rhaegar said. Then, as if to prove the women's previous words wrong, Rhaenys began to cry.

Elia sighed in resignation. “Time to feed”, she said, standing and taking the babe from Rhaella. “I will find the wet nurse, no need to send anyone.”

She hurried out of the room, the black gown worn for Ser Harlan's service flowing behind her. After feeding, she'd likely lay Rhaenys in her crib for a nap, next to the green dragon egg he'd found in the Dragonmont. It had shown no sign of hatching yet.

In the background, they could hear Ser Oswell gently correcting Viserys on his posture.

Rhaegar looked at the queen. “How are you, Mother?”

She seemed startled at the question, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “I am quite well, thank you. It has been so wonderful to have the three of you here. It greatly benefits Viserys, too.”

“Yes”, he said, “Certainly. How have things been in my absence?”

She looked out the window, a perfectly upright statue of a woman. “Viserys keeps me very busy”, she said, straining to sound casual. “We are so blessed to have him, after all your brothers and sisters who did not live.” Rhaella turned her face further away so he could only see the back of her head, pale hair held up by a large silver pin, voice almost too quiet to hear. “It would be wonderful to have another, of course.”

A perfectly normal thing to say, if it weren't for her frightened tone. Or the way she held herself, and how she couldn't look at him. Rhaegar looked at her gown again, black and rigid and with a collar hiding most of her neck, so unlike what she had used to wear. It wasn't a new fashion, either.

“Do you see the king often?”, he asked, feeling something twist in his stomach.

It took her a moment to answer. “He pays me visits, occasionally.”

His parents' marriage had never been a loving one, he knew that. His father had been an awful husband throughout, but he didn't think he'd been particularly violent before.

Now, however – how did one ask his mother such a thing? “When was the last time?”

“The day before you returned”, she said, still not facing him.

Rhaegar thought back - “The day he burned the merchants?” They had come to the capital to whispered tales about his father using wildfire to kill three wine merchants accused of being part of a plot to poison him.

Rhaella's head sunk slightly. “It is always after he burns someone.”

Hearing that felt like being punched in the chest. He'd _known_ that his father was a cruel, deranged lunatic – but somehow, it had never occurred to Rhaegar that he might inflict that cruelty on his mother in a physical way.

It took him a while to be able to speak, too strong was the rage smouldering inside him. The king hurt people every day, that was nothing new, but how could he hurt _her_ that way? His own sister, wife, and queen. She had endured so much for him.

Could he take her to Dragonstone? Unlikely, as long as his father was still in control.

He very lightly put his fingertips on her shoulder and was relieved she didn't flinch away. “Things will change soon”, he said, very quietly.

When Harrenhal was done, he would make sure his father would never touch her again.

Rhaella's head snapped around, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. “Do _not_ say such things”, she hissed. “If the king hears of anything approaching treason -”

She was interrupted by Viserys running in, blissfully oblivious. “Mother, Rhaegar”, he said, out of breath, “Ser Oswell says I should learn to ride.”

They both relaxed their postures and put on uneasy smiles. Beyond everything else, how was Viserys supposed to ride without leaving Maegor's?

“You will learn soon”, Rhaegar said anyway. “We will find you the finest pony in the Seven Kingdoms.”

When Viserys declared that he didn't want a pony but a mighty warhorse, Rhaegar somehow wished himself back to that age.

“Your Grace!”, he heard a young woman call out behind him as soon as he'd left Maegor's. When he turned, he found to his surprise – and concern – that it was Cersei Lannister, unaccompanied.

He gave a polite nod as she curtsied. “My lady.”

“It is a sad day”, she said with none of her usual smiles and flirtatiousness. “Ser Harlan passing so suddenly. I thought the service was very moving.”

Without a doubt, half the court had said these exact words at some point today. “His deeds will be long remembered”, Rhaegar said, wondering why on earth she was talking to him.

“Of course, one would not want to discuss his replacement before his body is cold.” The way she said it, she was well-aware that the entire castle was doing just that.

This was interesting. She'd never behaved this way around him. Was Tywin trying a new approach? Had he sent her to suggest someone he'd want on the Kingsguard?

“That would be quite tactless indeed.” Rhaegar studied her face, trying to discern _something_, but unable to. He didn't know her very well, no matter how many times she'd been sent before him. “And yet, I fear it must be done soon”, he continued, wanting her to get to the point. “The Kingsguard must be at full strength, now that the royal family has just grown.”

She didn't even appear annoyed at his pointing out he had a wife and child. If Tywin had sent her, however, then was this not very obvious? Them talking in front of Maegor's Holdfast, for all the court to see?

“If it please Your Grace”, she said, “and if it is not too presumptuous of me, I would have a suggestion for who could serve.”

There it was, then. But still very strange that she would approach him that openly. “Suggesting cannot hurt”, he said, curious. “Who does my lady have in mind?”

She quickly looked around and stepped a bit closer. “My brother”, she said. “Jaime. I know he only now became a knight, but he fought so bravely in the Kingswood. Ser Arthur knighted him himself on the battlefield, and Ser Barristan can vouch for him as well.”

Rhaegar was stunned. Ser Jaime in a white cloak – an insane idea for a Lannister. It would rob Tywin of his heir and leave Casterly Rock to his dwarf son, whose existence he by all accounts detested.

This was certainly _not_ the Lord Hand's suggestion, which did explain why Cersei was approaching him so inelegantly. Was she so desperate to have her brother with her in King's Landing?

That wasn't even an unlikely explanation, he decided. For all her posturing, she likely felt quite lost and alone at court, as so many young ladies did.

“I have heard much of Ser Jaime's valour”, he replied. “But my lady must understand that this is not for me to decide.”

She cast down her eyes. “I am aware. I merely wanted Your Grace's opinion so as to not bother the king with something that might be out of the question.”

In other words: she was afraid of his father, and wanted him to tell her if she'd become the subject of his rage for bringing up the possibility. Rhaegar couldn't blame her.

He did not think that Aerys would mind at all, however. If Jaime were to become part of the Kingsguard, it would be the most polite way possible to thoroughly humiliate Tywin. As much as it was ever possible to predict his reaction, Rhaegar thought his father would be delighted if the idea was put before him, and Jaime would be wearing white very soon.

Which meant that he, now, had the power to decide this. He didn't know if he could trust the boy, who he'd barely ever met, but he did know this: A potential further rift between Tywin and his father wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and neither was taking away Jaime's ability to marry Lysa Tully. Also, he was by all accounts a skilled swordsman.

“Truth be told, my lady, I think it is a wonderful idea”, he said. “The Kingsguard needs someone young who can serve for many decades. I believe the king would be very glad to hear this proposition.”

It was the first time he'd seen her real smile. “Thank you very much, Your Grace”, she said before sinking into a curtsey that was lower than necessary, and hurrying off towards the throne room.

Rhaegar looked after her, bewildered. That had been strange – and very convenient.

After that encounter, he was free to continue on his way to a place very few in the Red Keep ever sought out: the godswood. He wanted to collect a few herbs he knew grew there in order to make incense to be burned in his mother's chambers, filling the air with healing powers derived from the Smith. She had so many hurts to tend to, and soothing them was the only thing he could do for now.

The godswood was massive, and often abandoned, as now – although he was sure that many a secret meeting took place here. Taking advantage of the way spring had set in, Rhaegar collected sage and liverwort and kingscopper, and dragon's breath as well, though those to give to Elia. A few juniper berries, too, and borage blossoms.

Oak would be good, too, though he would rather obtain that from the castle's carpenter than start felling trees. The heart tree in this godswood was a great oak, and Rhaegar wondered if he might be able to chip off a piece of bark. Right now was the hour of the Smith.

Nearing the tree with his bag full of plants, he became increasingly doubtful of that idea. He did not know much of the old gods – there were next to none of their followers in the capital, he hadn't ever been to the North, and they put nothing in writing. He'd read a book or two on the topic and had found it fascinating, but the books were all written by maesters.

A true heart tree was a weirwood, of course. There weren't any left anywhere near King's Landing. If it was just an oak... Rhaegar stopped before the tree, and was suddenly entirely certain that he should not take from it. It wouldn't do any good to anger the old gods.

He considered the tree. It had no face, unlike the famous weirwoods. It was overgrown with smokeberry vines, plump red fruits looking as though it was the height of summer instead of the beginning of spring. At its feet, dragon's breath grew plentifully, crimson like the berries above.

A breeze went through the godswood, though it somehow lacked the ocean smell that would usually come in from the bay. Leaves rustled and even the great branches of the heart tree were moving, as if they were in a mighty storm.

Something was happening, of that Rhaegar was sure. He'd conferred with his fair share of higher powers. Carefully setting down his bag of plants, he stepped more closely towards the tree.

The berries were far more ripe than they should have been. Spring had only just begun (if even that, with some maesters thinking that it was a false one after all), and yet they were so large and red, and Rhaegar couldn't resist the strange impulse to touch one.

It burst. He'd barely placed his finger on it and the thin skin opened, thick crimson juices erupting out. Most of it ran slowly down the tree, while some was on his hand, looking more like blood than anything that _wasn't_ blood had any right to.

Intrigued, he looked up the tree, as if it was about to explain itself. How did their followers speak with the old gods again? He thought there might be kneeling, but they definitely touched the trees, didn't they?

The oak was so overgrown by the vines that he touched several more berries when he brought his palm against the trunk. All burst, their juices running down the tree and his hand, making a mess of his sleeve. Good thing he was wearing black.

What now? Should he speak? He was quite sure that he'd heard the northern prayer referred to as silent before.

And thus, he just thought, but with intent. _Hello_, he said in his mind, quite unsure of what he was doing. _Is there anything? Anyone? _

He thought he felt – something. Or perhaps he heard it. A sigh from far away, escaping a thousand lungs.

_Old gods of the forest_, he thought now, _I am Prince Rhaegar of House Targaryen. Are you there? Can you hear me? Was it you who made the berries thus; are you telling me something?_

There was definitely a vague presence, as if he was being looked at from a long distance, and somehow knew it. Had he... had he just heard the word _berries_ echo back to him?

Thinking that there couldn't be much harm to it, at the very least, Rhaegar used his left hand to try to pluck one. As he could've guessed, it burst as well. After a moment of hesitation, he licked a small amount of the juice off his finger.

It didn't taste like juice. It tasted like blood.

_How?_, he asked, and received no answer. Instead, _berries_, and: _blood_.

He very carefully plucked off a bit of vine that had a berry hanging on it, and dangled it into his mouth, only touching the skin with his tongue. It tasted exactly like drinking fresh blood had to; a disturbing thought. On the other hand, he'd had shade of the evening before, and this could hardly be more dangerous.

Forcing himself to swallow it down, Rhaegar leaned against the tree, feeling a bit drowsy. _Prince_, he heard, much louder now. _Dragon Prince_.

Startled, he started at the bark under his hand. _Old gods_, he replied, not knowing what else to say.

_Prince of Fire_, they said. _Groom of Fire. Groom of Ice. Father, brother, king._

This sounded suspiciously like prophecy, vague as it was. _What are you telling me?_

_Three and three and three_, they said, and hearing it made him want to either laugh or cry or punch the tree. He'd heard this before, hadn't he?

_But for what? The prince who was promised? The return of dragons? The dawn? What does it all mean, oh gods?_

_Dragon_, they repeated. _Three heads_.

_I know_, he shouted, if one could shout in his mind. _The prince who was promised will bring the dawn, born amidst salt and smoke beneath a bleeding star, his is the song of ice and fire, the dragon must have three heads... I know the words, but I do not know their meaning._

_Words_, they replied, _wind. Ice. Fire. Three, Dragon Prince. Three and three and three._

With that, the presence rapidly moved away, as if hurriedly returning somewhere after an exhausting journey. The old gods left Rhaegar standing by the tree, covered in what might just be blood, and thoroughly confused.

Getting back into his rooms without getting close to anyone who could spy the stains on his clothes had been difficult, but he thought he'd managed well enough. Elia wasn't there, though Rhaenys was sleeping peacefully in her crib, curled around the dragon egg with the wet nurse at her side. If she'd noticed anything strange about him, she didn't mention it.

He decided that he was in need of a bath. As he washed it all off, Elia entered the room and gasped, colour fading from her face.

“I am not hurt”, he said quickly, and she relaxed. The water around him was red. “I do not know if it is blood, but in either case it is not mine.”

“Say that again?” Her shock was quickly replaced by confusion. “What happened?”

And so, Rhaegar told her. By the end of his tale, she was standing behind him, washing the last bits of whatever the substance was out of his hair. “How bizarre”, she said. “And yet, nothing truly new. If there is one thing you know by now, it is that threes are very important.”

“Apparently so.” He closed his eyes, leaning into the feeling of her fingers in his hair. “Prince of Fire”, he said. “That is obvious. Groom of Fire, too. You are the Sun of Dorne.”

“But”, she said, hands stopping, “Groom of Ice? What does _that_ mean?”

“I do not know.” And he didn't want to, either, for Elia surely wasn't ice, and he did not want to contemplate that. Quickly, he moved on. “Father, brother, king. That makes sense, at least. I am both a father and a brother, and was born to one day be king.”

“It is nice to be certain that you will outlive your father, at the very least.” He could feel her parting a strand of his hair, beginning to form a braid. “Were you on your way to the godswood when Cersei Lannister approached you?”

He had almost forgotten about that. “She was not very subtle, was she?”, he asked, unsurprised that Elia had already heard. “That was interesting as well, in truth. She wants Jaime on the Kingsguard.”

His wife stopped for a heartbeat, then chuckled. “Lord Tywin will hate that. By the Seven, what an eventful day. And you do not even know the greatest news yet.”

He made to sit up, but was held back by her hands in his hair. “And what would those be?” At least it didn't seem bad, from the way she said it.

Elia hummed, working on his braid for a while. “I went to see the Grand Maester before I came back to find you in a bathtub full of blood”, she said finally. “He is an awful man, that Pycelle. I do not like him.”

“You share that assessment with most of the court.” Impatient, he glanced up. “Will you tell me what you found out?” He already had an inkling, as there wouldn't be many positive things to report from a visit to the maester.

She bound his braid together, then stood next to him, arms on the tub. “I am with child again.”

“Oh.” Rhaegar looked her over, trying to imagine her all large again. “So soon?”

They'd never stopped sharing a bed, but had only started laying with each other again a few weeks ago, wanting to give her time after Rhaenys' birth.

“So soon.” She smiled, and Rhaegar took her hand to place a kiss on it.

He was certain that he was meant to have three children. Unless his parents conceived another – which he dearly hoped they didn't, as it would only mean his father visiting his mother more often until then – then this was the best chance at a three-headed dragon, after all.

With Elia pregnant again, they were a step closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Rhaella's age: She should only be 34 or 35 now. Which is crazy, but must be that way according to the Wiki of Ice and Fire age calculation. She was just really young when Rhaegar was born (14, in true ASOIAF fashion), which also explains how she was able to have Daenerys by the time Rhaegar would've been 25/26.


	13. 281 AC - Elia

_King's Landing, the 5th moon of the year 381 AC_

“Doran is incredibly happy you are sending her”, Oberyn said, grinning down at Rhaenys. “And the children – Arianne wants nothing more than another one younger than her in the Water Gardens, ever since I brought Obara and Nymeria.”

“How many daughters do you have now?”, Rhaegar asked. They stood at the wheelhouse that would bring Rhaenys down to Dorne, accompanied by Oberyn, Lewyn, Ser Arthur, and a large contingent of guards.

Neither of them liked it, but there was nowhere she would be safer than in Dorne while they were at the tourney.

“Four, as it turns out”, Oberyn replied. “You should meet them, sweet sister, and Doran's son as well. Come visit us at home after the tournament.”

There wasn't much she wanted more. “I will, if time allows”, she promised. Then she picked Rhaenys up and pressed her close, feeling and smelling her for a last time before they'd be separated for several moons. Perhaps her little sibling would be with them the next time they saw each other.

Elia pressed a kiss upon her daughter's head, memorised her face as it sleepily smiled up to her. Then she handed her to Rhaegar, feeling tears in her eyes. “Send Doran my love”, she told Oberyn. “And Mellario, and Arianne, and little Quentyn, and your daughters. Perhaps you will have another one by the time I next see you.”

Oberyn laughed as Rhaegar placed Rhaenys back in the crib, right next to the dragon egg, which was then carefully loaded into the wheelhouse. She'd have two wet nurses with her on the journey, as well as a maester and a septa. “In the two moons until the tourney?”, her brother asked. “Not unless it emerges that I got a child on a woman in Sunspear.”

“And none of us would be surprised”, Rhaegar said before quickly embracing him, muttering something Elia couldn't hear, but that was certainly an unnecessary threat about what would happen if Rhaenys sustained a single scratch.

Next, Oberyn took her in his arms, kissing both her cheeks. “I will see you at Harrenhal”, he whispered. “Rhaenys will be safe. She can remain in Dorne until all is done.”

And wasn't there much to do. “If things do take longer than we expect”, she whispered back, which meant _if there is any fighting_, “then I will be at home before my child is born.” If it all didn't go wrong in the worst of ways.

They let go, and Elia cast a last, longing look into the wheelhouse. She wouldn't sleep soundly until she heard of Rhaenys' arrival at the Water Gardens, and even then she didn't think she'd truly feel whole until she could hold her again.

But it was doubtlessly better than taking her to Harrenhal, where the outcome of their plans was far from certain, or sending her to Dragonstone by herself – or leaving her in the Red Keep with her mad grandfather. No, this was the best thing they could do.

After they'd sent the wheelhouse off to Dorne, Rhaegar went to practice his jousting with the remaining Kingsguard, while Elia returned to their apartments. Her ladies would join her later, when the seamstresses would come – new gowns were being made for the tourney.

Before, she had a brief moment alone. Telling her guards that she should not be disturbed, Elia began preparing the solar. She'd learned a great deal since her wedding.

She scattered small pieces of dry sandalwood over the coals in the hearth, closed the curtains, and took a large, flat piece of dragonglass from a drawer. Elia leaned it onto a few books so it would stand upright on a table in the middle of the room, grabbed a glass vial she'd received from Oberyn, and stuffed a sachet filled with dried lavender, bergamot, and poison kisses into her bodice as she sat before it, inhaling the scents.

“Crone”, she said, staring into her reflection in the dragonglass, envisioning Her. “Oh wisest lady, You Who Lights The Path. Grant me Your wisdom in this hour, so I may know what lies ahead. Let me see in the light of Your lantern, let my crow's eye wander as quicksilver over what the future holds.”

She opened the flask, breathing in the smell of river water, and switched into Rhoynish. “Mother Rhoyne. This child of yours is far away, and even though we found a home across the sea, I am no less yours than Nymeria herself. I beg you to grant me knowledge of things to come as if you were carrying me from present to future.” She imagined seeing herself in the dragonglass, floating in the vast river as she let a drop of water from the Royne touch her tongue.

Setting the flask down, Elia ran a finger along the sharp edges of the dragonglass, quickly sustaining a tiny, shallow cut. “Gods of Valyria”, she said in High Valyrian, “I carry one of your blood within me, and have birthed another. I must protect them; I must make the choices to keep them safe and hand them their birthright. For this purpose, I need to know what the future holds.” She smeared a small amount of blood onto the dragonglass. “For the sake of my husband and children, who are of the blood of the dragon, grant me this knowledge.”

Elia stared into the glass, initially seeing nothing but her own reflection, dark and distorted. Emptying her mind of all but her purpose and unfocusing her eyes, she began to go through the things she wanted to know.

At the tourney, Rhaegar wanted to convene the high lords in attendance to discuss what was to be done about his father, hoping to gain their support to declare the king unfit, and Rhaegar his regent. Hoster Tully, Jon Arryn, Mace Tyrell, and Robert Baratheon would be personally present, while Lord Stark was sending all his children, and his heir Brandon would speak for him. Would they be receptive to Rhaegar's ideas?

She saw all of them sitting in a large room before her and Rhaegar, taking turns speaking, the atmosphere seeming amiable enough. And then, possibly on a different day as their clothing had changed, Robert Baratheon and Brandon Stark in an argument; two large men barely containing their rage as a young woman (Lyanna Stark?) stood behind them. That was concerning.

The king, luckily, had decided not to attend the tourney, just as they'd hoped. He was too fearful of being assassinated if he left the Red Keep, and knowledge of its true purpose had not reached him. Would this change?

All she saw was Aerys on the Iron Throne, long-nailed fingers picking at a new cut he'd sustained from his seat.

After Ser Jaime's upcoming appointment to the Kingsguard had been announced, Tywin Lannister had resigned from his position as Hand. He'd plead illness, but all knew it had been the insult that had done it. Now, Jaime was to be handed his white cloak by Rhaegar at Harrenhal, quite possibly because her husband had put on a show of resistance to the appointment, knowing it would only make his father more likely to agree to it. With Tywin back at Casterly Rock and refusing to attend the tourney, how would he act?

She saw Cersei Lannister descending the steps of a sept, red-and-gold maiden cloak heavy on her shoulders. Her groom, she could not see.

Elia was in the third moon of her pregnancy, and so far, it was going much like the last. Could the gods offer her any glimpse of her child? Would it live, would it be strong and healthy, would she have the third they knew she needed?

She saw herself in pain, she _felt_ the pain, so much worse than with Rhaenys, ripping her apart, a frantic Rhaegar delirious in prayer. And then, the child, yes, a boy – after that, things were much more blurred. A shadowy figure of herself heavy with her third, often in pain, all the frailty and illness of her childhood having returned. The birthing bed again, blood pooling all around her. Rhaegar in mourning clothes holding a babe, staring stone-faced at her body laid out in the Great Sept.

Elia sent word to her ladies and the seamstresses to come another day, and had her husband come instead. After she'd told him what she'd seen, he knelt before her, hands on her knees.

“A third child would kill you”, Rhaegar said, tone flat.

She swallowed. “It appears so.”

“Then there will be no third.” He said that very easily, as if he hadn't spent the last years obsessing over: “The prophecy, Rhaegar. The dragon must have three heads.”

“And a king must have a queen. You cannot die, Elia, not before you are old and grey and surrounded by our grandchildren.”

His words and the way he looked at her were touching, and yet, she knew it was no good. “We both know you _must_ have a third child”, she said, and then realisation hit them both at once.

Rhaegar stood with a sigh and walked a few steps away, while Elia suddenly felt very tired. “Nothing implies that all your children must be mine.” Putting it into words didn't help. “Well. It should not be difficult for you to find a paramour.”

He ran a hand through his hair, staring into the room and at the piece of dragonglass still on the table. “The _dragon_ must have three heads. It cannot be a bastard.”

Elia rose as well, an uneasy feeling beginning to build in her stomach. “You will be king. You can legitimise the child. I would not complain as long as my children's rights are assured, and since we now know this one”, she pointed at her belly, even though he wasn't looking at her, “will be a boy, I do not see much of a problem.”

A pause. “Remember your brother's wedding gift for me? Daeron the Good. He could have told you much about legitimised Targaryen bastards.”

“It was not he who created the Blackfyres”, she pointed out, standing behind him. She hated discussing this, she hated knowing that he would be with another woman, she hated the idea that he could desire anyone but her. With more gentleness than she thought herself capable of in that moment, Elia laid a hand on his shoulder and turned him towards her. “You need three children”, she said. “I can either give you three and die, or give you two, and then you have your third by another. As we are already wed, I do not see any way you could have a child by anyone else and not father a bastard -”

The guilty look in his eyes made her understand that there was, in fact, a way. Before she could stop herself, Elia lashed out and laid a resounding slap on his cheek, leaving her hand tingling and his face red.

“_No”_, she said, taking another swing and finding her wrist caught in his iron grip, furious purple eyes boring into hers.

“You _dare_ strike your prince -”

She laughed at his face, twisting her arm to free herself from his grasp. “What will you do?”, she asked, stepping back. “Take my hand? You are welcome to it; take it away together with my crown as you set me aside. Of course, you would lose -”

“Elia”, he said, voice hoarse, but she continued. “You would lose Dorne.” She was walking away from him, gesturing at the air as she spoke. “My brothers would be outraged. You should watch what you eat as Oberyn would almost certainly try to poison you, and Doran – well, Doran would take his revenge on you years later, in a way you would never understand until it was too late. But what does Dorne matter when you can marry the rest of the realm?”

“Elia”, Rhaegar said again, walking up behind her. Remembering her visions, she began to feel truly sick as she reconsidered the scene in the sept. “You best ride for Casterly Rock right now”, she recommended. “It will be the first happy day in Lord Tywin's life since Lady Joanna died. Even your father might be able to live with Cersei as a good-daughter after he has experienced the alternative; at least your child off her would not _smell Dornish_.”

“Elia.” He was right behind her. She stood with her back to him, arms on her hips, talking to the window. “Or even better, Lysa Tully. Then you would be part of their grand alliance; their support would be guaranteed. I suppose I would return to Dorne after our son's birth, when you pressure the High Septon into annulling our marriage. I do not know which pretext you could use, but in either case you would do well to remember that Rhaenys will be in the Water Gardens. She _is_ your heir by Dornish law.”

She felt his hand on her shoulder, now, and flinched away. Then, she found herself turned around anyway, pressed with her back against the window as his forehead touched hers. _“Elia”_, he said, her face in his hands, and she noticed she was shaking. Rhaegar kissed her forehead, then her chin, her right cheek and her left, her nose and her eyelids and finally her lips, all the while murmuring her name. Her chest was heaving and her hands were somehow in his hair when he stopped, staring into her eyes. “I will never set you aside”, he promised. “You are my wife, you are my _love_, and one day you'll be my queen.”

She was crying and she didn't know what to do or say, so she kissed him. Their kisses soon turned into more as they went from embracing to pulling at laces, somehow managed to get away from the window and onto a couch, and made love in a way that was frantic and desperate; leaving them half undressed and fully out of breath.

After a moment, she got up, shoulders of her gown pulled down to her elbows, stumbling over an underskirt that had sustained some damage. “Where are you going?”, Rhaegar asked.

Elia pulled her arms out of her sleeves completely, because that was easier, and poured herself a cup of water. She drank it all and filled the cup again, feeling his eyes on her as she returned and he pulled her close as soon as she'd sat down.

She passed him the cup. This had certainly felt very good, but it hadn't solved any of their problems.

“So”, she said. “You must have a third child, but it cannot be mine. You will not father a bastard on a mistress, and you will not set me aside to wed another. I do not see any solution to this.”

He was staring into space with the cup in his hand. Chest bared, breeches unlaced, and hair a mess, Rhaegar looked more handsome than she'd ever seen him. “There must be”, he said. “There is also the question of who the other mother could be. Do you remember what I heard in the godswood? Groom of Fire, Groom of Ice. You are fire, but who is ice?”

She still didn't like the idea of him being with anyone else, but she did like it better than dying, Elia thought. “Ice”, she repeated. “And the old gods. That does sound like the North to me.” She took the cup from him, and had the last sip. “I still believe that a paramour is the only solution. At the tourney, there will be more northerners south of the Neck than in decades; perhaps you will find a northern maid there.” The thought enraged her, though somehow, the mental image of a plain, pasty northern girl with mouse-brown hair helped. An uncharitable notion, but soothing.

Rhaegar remained unconvinced. “It cannot be a mistress”, he said. “Not only can the third head of the dragon hardly be a bastard, legitimised or not, but even more – she would have to be of low-enough birth for her father to agree to such a thing. And if you, Elia Nymeros Martell, are fire, then do you believe that some minor lord's daughter could be ice? _Gods._” He was blinking rapidly, and she had a sinking feeling that his thoughts had led him to a dangerous conclusion. “Not _a_ northern maid. _The_ northern maid.”

“Rhaegar.” She stared at him, wishing to turn the gears in his mind back to before he'd got that idea. There was only one young woman in the North whose birth could be compared to her own. “You are mad. Lyanna Stark is betrothed to Robert Baratheon.”

“So she is.” He let his head fall back onto the backrest and stared at the ceiling. Then he groaned. “Please tell me I am wrong. Not in terms of the political inconvenience, but in terms of prophecy.”

She scoffed. “_Inconvenience._ That is one way to put it.” Then Elia thought on it. “What do we know? The prince that was promised, born amidst all those things, bleeding star, his is the song of ice and fire -” She stopped. That didn't help, with Rhaegar so obviously associated with fire, and a direct descendant of the Kings of Winter with ice. “The dragon has three heads. This doesn't disprove it, but it is still precious little information to serve as a base for something that might start a war.” She noticed she still held the cup and put it away, then realised: “What do you propose for this _something_, anyway? I could imagine you'd be able to seduce any young woman, but if you dishonoured Lyanna Stark, you might as well send ravens to half the great lords in the realm and tell them you want a rebellion.” She could see it already: Both the Starks and Lord Baratheon would be outraged, dragging the Tullys and Lord Arryn with them, and possibly the Lannisters, too. All of their hopes of peacefully removing the king from power would be lost.

Rhaegar was still slouching on the couch and staring into emptiness. “I told you”, he said slowly, quietly, “I do not mean to have a mistress. I would not dishonour her; I would wed her.”

Elia's head hurt. “You are already wed”, she pointed out, unwilling to consider the possibility of being set aside once more. “To me.”

“Yes.” Now, he was looking at her as if she was some kind of child who couldn't understand. “And I intend to stay that way. You, and her.”

She fell back heavily, trying to even imagine that. “You are _not_ Aegon the Conqueror”, she said. “Nor are you Maegor the Cruel, thank the gods. You cannot have two wives.”

“Why not?” He was sitting up, elbows on his knees, seeming strangely satisfied with that ludicrous idea of his.

“It is a sin in the eyes of the gods”, she said, knowing she'd made a mistake the second the words left her mouth.

As she should've known, he chuckled. “Hardly. If the Faith wishes to take it up with me, they can; I understand their own scriptures much better than any of the Most Devout. I have wanted an opportunity to argue with them for _years_.”

“Will you argue with the smallfolk, too?” She already knew that this would be incredibly frustrating. Dissuading him from anything always was. “They do not care what Septon Barth wrote in his more outlandish musings. They only know that a godly marriage takes place between exactly one man and one woman, and anything else they will view as sin.”

He shrugged. “I believe it would take more than that for me to lose the love of the commons.”

“I would not be so sure. They are fickle.” But Rhaegar shook his head. “I know the people, at least those of King's Landing. If things were bad in the realm, they would blame it on my two wives in an instant, that is true – but as long as they eat well and have roofs over their heads, they will not care. They aren't any _more_ fickle than the lords.”

“The lords are, of course, the largest concern”, she said. “And besides that, how would you even marry her at all? You can hardly go around beheading septons like Maegor.”

“See, that is the beauty of it”, he replied. “I do not think that a Stark would care much about a septon blessing her marriage.”

“Seven hells.” She'd always thought herself good at arguing; until she met this ridiculous husband of hers. “That is your loophole, yes? Marrying her before a tree?”

He nodded, content. “In front of the old gods, indeed.”

Strangling him surely would cost her her head, but that only made it marginally less appealing. “Fine”, Elia said. “Let us assume that this _insane_ idea of yours holds merit, and that you somehow _must_ wed Lyanna Stark. Let us assume that the Faith won't rise against you, and that her own gods allow for this. Let us assume that _she_ will agree. That still does not solve the problem of her current betrothal, with Lord Stark most certainly against you, along with Lord Baratheon.”

“I know”, he said. “That is the difficult part.”

She snorted. “And the rest is not? How do you mean to do it?”

He looked at her, then, rather sheepish. “For that, I will need your help.”

“Help you marry another”, she replied. “In all honesty, Rhaegar, I would rather die on the birthing bed than see the realm plunged into war.”

“You will not.” He took her hands, imploring her with his gaze. “You will not die, and there will be no war. I do not yet know how, but we will find a solution. It is a delicate political puzzle, but like removing Varys, we will be able to solve it together.”

She sighed. “I would hope that no wildfire will come into play this time. But.” Her fingertips tapped onto his hands. “Do we _know_ that it must be the Stark girl? What if you could just take some lesser northern paramour? It would have the benefit of not being an issue for Dorne.” She looked down on their hands. “If you decide to have two wives, we would likely be able to convince Oberyn that it is the right thing to do, since he knows about the prophecy and would prefer this to me dying or being set aside. Together, Oberyn and I would likely be able to persuade Doran. But how he then convinces the lords that this isn't a terrible insult to our land...” She shrugged. “I cannot imagine.”

“It will be difficult”, he admitted. “Anything that defies convention is.”

Elia hummed, crossing her arms. “And to add to all these issues – I still do not like it. Do you have any idea how _humiliating_ it would be? How would you even justify it; by telling everyone I cannot bear you another child? That I am not enough?”

He said her name again, as if it was some kind of shortcut to quelling her ire. “There is no humiliation in being one of two queens”, Rhaegar claimed. “Do you believe that Rhaenys and Visenya saw it that way? They worked together, complementing Aegon and each other as the three heads of the dragon.” His eyes widened at yet another epiphany. “Three and three and three, my love. Father, brother, king. I will be a father of three, a king with two queens, and -” He paused. “One of three siblings? I had hoped not. My poor mother has been through enough.”

That was certainly one way to describe the horrors that Elia suspected the king inflicted on Rhaella. “Rhaenys and Visenya”, she repeated, returning to her point. “I suppose I am Visenya, the one you wed out of duty? And she will be like Rhaenys?”

It almost looked like he rolled his eyes, which made her want to slap him again. “I have no opinion of the girl. We have never met, as you know.”

“You _have_ seen her portrait.” She knew she was being unreasonable at this point; that there truly was no reason that he'd desire Lyanna Stark in particular. And yet, the whole concept of sharing him hurt – both her feelings and her pride. “She is very comely.”

He waved a hand. “A fair maid of – what, four-and-ten? Five? And now two years older. The Red Keep is full of them, and neither she nor any other can compete with the Sun of Dorne.”

Elia relented, though not because of the flattery. _“If”_, she said, “if we find a way for you to do all this without causing a war, then I will accept you taking another wife – on one condition.” She stared straight at him. “The boy I carry now will be your heir in any case, obviously. But should the child you have with her be a boy as well, he will come after Rhaenys.” He opened his mouth, and she cut him off. “I will accept this nonsensical custom of putting a brother ahead of his older sister for my own children, as I know that this is _not_ Dorne, but that is where it ends. My children come before hers. Should you deny me, or should you accept now and try to rob Rhaenys of her birthright later, I will bring all seven hells to King's Landing.”

He was silent for a moment, then began: “The Great Council of the year 101 -”

“Established that no woman may ever sit the Iron Throne. I know; we are taught history in Dorne. The fact that it was decided upon by a group of lords almost two-hundred years ago does not make it wise, nor practical. Do you believe Dorne ever suffered from being ruled by women? Did Nymeria make a worse ruler due to her sex; did my own lady mother?”

She could see that she'd got to him. “No”, he said slowly. “But the resistance -”

“Oh, please, Rhaegar.” She was incredibly fed up with their discussion. “I am _not_ proposing putting Rhaenys ahead of my son, while you are suggesting taking a second wife. One of these is more radical than the other. Most likely, our son will live to take the throne in either case.”

After a brief pause, he nodded. “Agreed. Our son, then Rhaenys, then whichever child I have by Lyanna Stark – who you will help me wed.”

“I suppose so.” She frowned. “Do we know for certain that it must be her?”

“No”, he admitted.

Exasperated, Elia untangled herself, getting up to her feet and beginning to put her clothes back in place. “Then we must find out”, she said. “Get dressed. I wish to visit the godswood.”

Soon after, the stood before the great oak.

“These look very much like normal smokeberries”, Elia commented, carefully plucking one at the stem. “Ripe a bit early, perhaps, but nothing we wouldn't have in Dorne. The large amount of juice is why it is so easy to make wine with them.”

She popped it into her mouth, and gagged. It tasted like drinking blood, making Elia spit out onto the ground.

Rhaegar's hand was on her back. “I do not understand how, either”, he said, while she regretted not bringing a flask of water, then stared up at the tree. There seemed to be a lot of wind in its branches, even though it was a calm day with barely a wave on the Blackwater.

There was a gap in the formation of berries on the trunk, presumably where Rhaegar had once put his hand against the tree. Elia traced it, thinking that the stains looked suspiciously like a face.

Then, she pressed her palm there, feeling the cold bark. “What did you do the last time?”, she asked, reluctant to eat a whole berry. _Old gods_, she thought, _please tell me if my husband is insane._

“I somewhat introduced myself”, he said, “and -”

Elia interrupted him with the other hand held up. “Did you hear that?”

Rhaegar looked at her blankly. “I am afraid not.”

But she did. Very clearly, though when she looked around, she couldn't find the source.

“A wolf”, she had to say. “I can hear a wolf howling. Very loudly.”

There were no wolves in King's Landing, nor in the Red Keep.

Elia closed her eyes, and could see one right there. Much larger than it should be, with brown fur and grey eyes, it was standing right beside them.

She tasted the blood on her lips, listened to the beast, and knew that Rhaegar was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia the polyglot – I'm pretty sure that most members of the high nobility of Westeros would learn High Valyrian, since it's the lingua franca in Essos anyway. Much like any highly educated person in Europe in the past would have a certain knowledge of Latin (though that was admittedly also due to religious reasons).  
Most Dornish people don't speak Rhoynish anymore, safe for the Orphans of the Greenblood – but I don't really see why the Martells wouldn't learn it. It seems only appropriate for the descendants of Nymeria, the official ban aside. We also know that Doran at least has a good relationship with the Orphans, and I could imagine him (and his mother) taking a more pro-Rhoynish stance than many of his predecessors. 
> 
> Not actually sure if Hoster Tully was really there for the tourney, but I don't see anything speaking against it. He is the Whents' liege, and it's a shorter journey from Riverrun than most places.
> 
> It does appear that in Westeros, a king (at least) can set his wife aside even if they have children. In AGOT, Cersei is concerned about Robert setting her aside even though she doesn't expect him to find out who her kids' real father is, and Renly's whole initial scheme hinges on Robert wanting to marry Margaery. (If Robert had found out that the kids were Jaime's, there'd be an execution rather than a divorce.)
> 
> And lastly: I'm not actually sure if Elia is right that putting a sister ahead of a brother is less radical than a king with two wives. In her mind it is, because she doesn't entirely understand the problem the rest of Westeros has with female rulers, but I think that under consideration of Westerosi society's general misogyny, it's possible that a bigamous king would be accepted more readily than a queen ruling in her own right.


	14. Harrenhal, Day 1 - Lyanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Tourney time.  
There's a lot happening here, and annoyingly, canon places most of the events all on the same first day. This'll go a bit differently here, so for instance, the Howland and the squires/Knight of the Laughing Tree situation will happen – but not on day one. This shouldn't really have much of an impact. If you really want, you can imagine that this is because everyone's schedules are different as Aerys isn't attending (with Varys not being alive to snitch on Rhaegar) and the informal Great Council can actually take place. Aerys' absence also means that fewer of the Kingsguard are present.
> 
> You may have noticed that new relationship tags have appeared. I always write a good bit ahead, but when I started uploading this, I didn't know if Ned/Ashara would happen. Considering that Bran won't die in this, though, and I'm pretty sure that Ned and Ashara were actually in love in canon (or at least crushing on each other, though Ashara seems to have told Allyria that they were in love), it really only makes sense.

**Part II: Harrenhal**

_Harrenhal, the 7th moon of the year 281 AC_

_The first day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Arrival of the last attendees; opening ceremony and feast_

They'd been able to see the castle for many miles, with its five enormous towers dominating the gentle slopes of the Riverlands. Its size was dizzying for Lyanna, who'd always heard Winterfell being spoken of as a large castle, but this – it was ludicrous, really.

She'd thought that their northern contingent was quite big, with half their own household as well as the Mormonts, Dustins, Boltons, Manderlys, Hornwoods, and Howland Reed, who met them not far from Harrenhal's gates. Now very close to the castle, she was quite sure that their entire party could easily get lost in it.

At least, it was all very busy. Since they'd crossed the Neck, they'd been part of an ever-growing procession of travellers, from lords and knights like the Freys and Mallisters all the way down to common hedge knights and archers hoping to win a large prize, or at least employment. Activity around Harrenhal itself was frantic, as the stream of shields and banners entering the castle grew ever more dense, guards and outriders were swarming all around, and a camp had even assembled outside the gates, made up of those not permitted inside – mostly whores and thieves and sellswords, as Bran claimed, probably rightly.

Riding at the front of the northern group with her brothers, Lyanna found it hard to contain her whirlwind of emotions. Being here was exhilarating, of course; she'd never even been south before, and not attended a tourney either. That this was the greatest held in anyone's lifetime only added to it all. She'd see more people in one place than ever before.

On the other hand, she was to meet both her betrothed, and the prince. If she did become the Lady of Storm's End after this, she likely would have many more opportunities to speak to Rhaegar – but when, that she could not know. And if she would marry Lord Robert this soon depended on the outcome of the talks expected to take place, this much she had been told. If a conflict with the throne appeared imminent, their alliance would need to be solidified immediately.

Something _had_ to happen within the next ten days.

“Look at those guards”, Bran said as they were riding up to the gate, just loud enough for all of his siblings to hear. “Quite a lot of them, don't you think?”

There were, indeed, many on the ramparts, and many more riding and walking around the vicinity of the castle, though none seemed to care much about the illicit encampment. All the way above the gate, they saw what appeared to be two young knights, one wearing a white surcoat emblazoned with a red salmon, the other yellow with skulls and red lips. They were watching those arriving and periodically shouting orders; quite possibly identifying anyone nearing the castle.

“Indeed.” Ned had just come down from the Eyrie and had joined them on their way. “More than Lord Whent should have, in fact.”

Bran hummed. “More men than he should have, and more gold on offer. I would almost suspect that most of these guards usually wear dragons instead of bats. And if I remember the royal wedding correctly, Mooton and Lonmouth up there”, he nodded at the gate, “used to be the prince's squires.”

Lyanna could feel her heart beating loudly in her chest. After all these years, the idea of actually being in Prince Rhaegar's presence was harrowing, but the way her brothers were speaking about things, he was undoubtedly close.

“But doesn't Harrenhal have large lands?”, Ben asked. “You would expect the Whents to be wealthy.”

“True enough.” A rider emerged from within the gates, bringing his mount past a few knights identifying themselves to guards at the gatehouse, and Bran lifted his arm to make their procession stop. “But they are not _this_ wealthy. Not as much as the heir to the throne. This is Rhaegar's tourney in truth, which is why we are here. Just look at who is coming to meet us – we met at the wedding, and he is very close to the prince.”

The rider was nearing. He was young, with short, fiery hair and an equally coloured beard, his shield showing two griffins in white and red. “Lord Connington”, Bran called out as the man slowed his horse. “Good to see you again.”

The man stopped before them, and Lyanna could see him briefly looking her over. Connington of Griffin's Roost, she thought. A stormlord. If she did wed Robert, she'd be the wife of his liege, which he doubtlessly was aware of.

“My lord of Stark”, he said, then nodded to her. “Lady Lyanna, I assume. And -”

“My brothers, Eddard and Benjen”, Bran explained. “As well as about half the North behind us.”

Lord Connington glanced at their contingent. “Luckily, Harrenhal is large enough for most of the realm. I have been sent to greet and accompany you in the name of”, a brief pause, “Lord Whent.”

Bran smirked. “That is most gracious of his lordship; we certainly would have been lost otherwise.”

Connington nodded once more, turning his horse around. “Follow me then, my lords and my lady. The Wailing Tower is both difficult to miss, and yet hard to reach.” He way he spoke sounded strange, she thought, before realising that he was merely southern.

After they had traversed a castle larger than some towns and Lyanna had been given a room five times the size of her own at Winterfell, she had some time to wash off the stink of travel and change. Her maid Emy had accompanied them and was intent on making her look her best for her introduction to most of the realm's nobility, and her betrothed as well – though Lyanna mostly wanted to look good for the prince, stupid as she knew that to be. They settled on the second-most splendid gown she owned (the first being reserved for the possibility of her being wed instead of returning home); cloth-of-silver and embroidered white velvet, half her hair braided up into a bun under a jewel-studded hairnet, and more jewellery placed everywhere they could fit. She looked like a princess of winter, though it wasn't lost on her that it might be the beginning of spring.

All three of her brothers just _had_ to comment that she could look like a lady after all, when she really would've expected better from Ned, at the very least.

The opening ceremony took place in a courtyard large enough that it would be able to accommodate almost all events of the tourney in the coming days. Getting there took them a long time, not only because of the distance, but also because Bran and Ned knew many a southern noble, and all had to be greeted.

When they'd almost made it to the raised platform on which members of the Great Houses would sit, after approximately ten lords and twenty knights whose names Lyanna had already forgotten, Ned's wide smile told her he'd spotted someone he liked.

Her heart sunk when she realised who it was. A very tall man approached them, clean-shaven with thick black hair and striking blue eyes, strong muscles visible under his clothes in a way she had to admit was far from unappealing. He was walking straight at them, the crowd parting all around and some stopping to watch, which she supposed she could've seen coming.

“Robert”, Ned said when the lord stood before – no, _over_ her, massive as he was. “I am very happy to finally introduce to you my sister, the Lady Lyanna Stark.”

She curtsied and cast down her eyes, which had the benefit enabling her to briefly avoid his gaze. He looked so pleased; his smile so genuine, that she felt intensely guilty.

“Lyanna”, Ned went on, somewhat unnecessarily, “I present to you Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End.”

Her betrothed bowed before taking her hand to kiss it. “I hope the man who painted my lady's portrait is no longer in Lord Stark's service”, he said. “He did not nearly do you justice.”

She made herself smile. “You are too kind, my lord.” What should she say now? _You are, in all honesty, very handsome, and I wish I could be happy about being your betrothed_? She was far too aware of the many people watching.

Luckily, Lord Whent appeared before her silence had become too long, saving her from having to add anything at all. After introducing himself, he told them that he was loath to interrupt, but if my lords and ladies pleased then they might wish to take their seats?

Lyanna didn't want anything more than that, knowing she would sit between her brothers. The dais reserved for them was hung with many banners – Whent bats sharing the middle with the Targaryen dragon, as they were the hosts after all, the Tully fish on their left; Lord Hoster having come with his young son Edmure. The sun and spear of the Martells was to the right of the royal banner, followed by the Baratheon stag and the rose of the Tyrells, while their Stark direwolf was placed to the left of the Tullys, with the Arryn falcon next to them. Names and titles were called out when they took their seats, including the announcement that Lady Celia Whent had just turned four-and-ten and would be queen of love and beauty; her title defended by her brothers and Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard. And Lyanna had almost forgotten that Lady Celia's nameday had been the pretext for all this.

As soon as they'd sat down, all rose again, which was immediately explained by another announcement. “The guest of honour”, the herald shouted, “Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone”, along with everyone else, she craned her neck to get a look, “and his wife, the Princess Elia of House Nymeros Martell.”

Striding up to the dais with all eyes on him was the man from her visions. She'd never had any doubt about it; the amount of young men with that hair colour and red and black arms being very limited, and yet – this felt very different. He was actually _real_, and there, and if the gods had not made this happen then she didn't know what could have.

Of course, there was his wife. Princess Elia was beautiful, shining brightly in red and gold and orange, silk flowing around her as the walked, one hand on his arm and the other on her belly. Another child for the prince and the realm.

Three Kingsguard walked behind them, recognisable by their arms – Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Barristan Selmy, and of course Ser Oswell Whent.

As the royal couple neared the platform, Lyanna realised that she was holding on to the balustrade. There were stairs leading up right to their seats, so they would not need to pass by her, but the closer the prince got, the more nervous she became. What if he _looked_ at her? It would be a normal thing to do. They'd be introduced later, anyway. How would she not blurt everything out? What if she _fainted_, like some southron girl?

The royal couple was very close, now, and both their gazes glid over the lords and ladies, to her horror. And then, Rhaegar's eyes met hers.

She didn't actually know what her face did in that moment, though she dearly hoped it wasn't anything ridiculous. Lyanna was quite sure that she wasn't making a sound, luckily, but she tried to scream it all out with her stare – _I have known about you for so long; known we are destined for each other, I know this sounds absurd but the gods have told me, Your Grace, the _gods_, and please make it happen somehow because our son will need to end the Long Night one day, and if we do not have him that might mean the end of all the living_. He probably couldn't read minds, but it would've made things easier if he did.

He smiled at her.

It didn't last long and was barely noticeable, but he did. The second she saw that, Lyanna knew that he was more beautiful than any human being should be, but also that this would be something she'd obsess over for days now. It was already starting – had that meant anything? Or was it just a polite smile for a girl who probably looked terrified in that moment?

The moment passed, and next, she found the princess looking at her. Lyanna had no idea what that meant, and thought it was likely nothing at all, but felt terribly guilty nonetheless.

Of course they were _looking_ at her, she thought when the two had reached their seats and all could sit again, taking them out of her sight. Everyone was. She was the daughter of the Lord of Winterfell and future Lady of Storm's End and had never been south of the Neck before. All the southern nobility wanted to see her.

Lyanna could barely focus on the proceedings, the knowledge of the prince sitting only a few feet away from her being terribly distracting. Lord Whent talked at length about tourneys and what they meant and how good it was to have so much of the realm's best in one place, in a way that could be interpreted to be less about tourneys and more about Great Councils, the first of which Whent even mentioned when discussing Harrenhal's history. They then heard about the many events planned, from a melee and archery contest to a horse race, axe throwing, five days of jousting, a mummer's show, and a tournament of singers. Lyanna supposed it would keep the other attendees entertained while the most powerful lords discussed the future of the realm.

Then, a septon stepped forward; the unfamiliar sight reminding Lyanna once more that she was now in the south. His Grace the Prince of Dragonstone had an announcement to make, Lord Whent said, and Rhaegar rose from his seat.

Lyanna hardly dared to look at him for fear of being too obvious, but then not looking would be suspicious too, would it not? So she did, noting that his black doublet wasn't truly plain but made of shining patterned damask, that his ruby red cape was of such a fine silk it almost seemed liquid, that strands of his hair were braided back. Quite a contrast to northern men.

When the prince spoke, his voice was deeper than she'd imagined. “Ser Jaime Lannister”, he called out, and like many of the other attendees, Lyanna knew what would come next. The appointment of Lord Tywin's heir to the Kingsguard had been announced beforehand, to the astonishment of many.

Ser Jaime hadn't sat upon the dais, likely because he hadn't come to the tournament as a representative of his House. All watched him kneel before the prince; a handsome young man with golden hair and armour, as Rhaegar made him say his vows – to defend and obey the king and keep his secrets, to counsel him when asked to, to give his life for the king's if need be, to take no wife and father no children, to serve at His Grace's pleasure, to do no harm to any of the king's blood. When it was done, the prince fastened the white cloak around Ser Jaime's shoulders, and Lyanna joined in with the cheers. The young knight was beaming, apparently less concerned about the dynastic implications than the fact that he had just become the youngest-ever knight of the Kingsguard.

Bran leaned down to Lyanna. “Southroners and their knighthoods”, he said. “This could not happen to any of us.”

True enough. Northern knights weren't unheard of, but rare, and no Stark had ever been a knight.

Rhaegar was saying something to Ser Jaime, though they couldn't hear. His face fell, however, before he bowed obediently, the prince clasped his shoulder, and Jaime took his new place behind the royal couple.

“That is four of them”, Ned said, looking at the Sers Arthur, Barristan, Oswell, and Jaime. “One will be commanded back to the capital”, he predicted.

“Aye.” Bran was slowly nodding. “I wager it will be Jaime, with the face he just made.”

And, in fact, the newest member of the Kingsguard was absent at the feast. While her older brothers seemed to find that interesting, Lyanna really didn't, because they were currently walking up the Hall of the Hundred Hearths to be formally introduced to the prince.

She desperately tried to calm herself. _I am a Stark of Winterfell, the blood of kings and wolves, blessed by the gods. I will _not_ be nervous about meeting _anyone.

Far too soon, they reached the royal couple. They had just been talking to Hoster Tully, who now took his leave, and Bran began to speak.

Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia looked so different, and yet, they were both so radiant. How was Lyanna supposed to have a child with him when he was married to _her_?

“... my sister”, Bran said, and she hoped she hadn't just been staring at them. “The Lady Lyanna.”

She curtsied, lowering her eyes. “Your Graces.”

“How very wonderful to meet you, my lady”, the princess said, her Dornish tones even more unfamiliar than everyone else she'd heard today. Looking at her was easier than looking at the prince, at least. “We all have heard so much of you from your dear betrothed. I should like for you to join me and the other ladies for one of these days, so we may get to know each other.”

Get to know the woman whose husband she was meant to somehow win for herself. “I would be honoured, Your Grace.” She could've expected that invitation; lady of the south she was meant to become.

Bran moved on to introducing Ned, and Lyanna briefly glanced up at the prince, only to see that he was looking at her. He nodded in greeting, seeing as he'd left the talking to his wife, but she saw something in his gaze that she couldn't decipher; an unexpected intensity perhaps. It was startlingly intimate to look into his eyes so directly, which made her note that they truly were purple, and brought up memories of some of her green dreams in which they'd been even _more_ intimate, which immediately made her flush, and fear that he could read minds after all.

Eyes locked with the prince for possibly too long, she only snapped out of it when he suddenly turned to Ned and said something polite. Feeling like she must've been caught, and with the realisation that she'd stopped breathing for that moment and her face was likely as red as his cape, she looked at his wife, hoping for the princess to have focused her attention on Lyanna's brothers.

She hadn't. Instead, Princess Elia was studying Lyanna, a calm and unflinching gaze right on her face. It was absolutely impossible that she wouldn't have just seen her staring at her husband and blushing, though she didn't look angered, at the very least – although it wasn't like Lyanna knew how to read the princess' moods.

Horrified, she quickly looked away, trying to pretend to be paying attention to Ben's introduction to the prince, but definitely without looking _at_ the prince again. One somewhat reassuring thought came into her mind: Someone with a husband like that had to be quite used to maids blushing at him, and likely didn't think much of it.

Mercifully, they soon moved on to speak to the next guests, and Lyanna was introduced to countless others including Hoster Tully and his young son, Jon Arryn and his heir and nephew Elbert, Lord and Lady Tyrell, all of the Whents, and Prince Oberyn Martell – who, in the course of one very brief conversation, gave her compliments verging on the inappropriate but making her laugh rather than blush, challenged Bran to a friendly duel to see if he couldn't beat such a large and fearsome man, left Ben with a wide grin, and Ned with a disapproving scowl.

The latter quickly disappeared as it emerged that he was sitting between Lyanna and Robert Baratheon at the high table. Her betrothed was faultlessly galant during the feast, constantly concerned with her receiving excellent cuts and having a full cup. When she confessed she didn't enjoy mutton, he promised to only serve the youngest lambs at Storm's End; when Ned mentioned she liked salmon, he proclaimed that every fisherman on his lands would be directed to deliver it. He noticed that she didn't drink much of the wine, which was too cloyingly sweet for her taste, then laughed, declared she was made of tougher stuff than a southern maid, and asked Lord Whent for his best ale. He mentioned he liked to hunt and he had heard she loved to ride, and that a beautiful palfrey was waiting for her and he was hoping she'd accompany him when he rode out.

Lyanna couldn't bring herself to be cold in the face of so much enthusiasm, and had to smile and laugh – even though that only made her feel worse, as she knew she'd have to betray him, one way or another. Her guilt only somewhat abated when the hour got later and both food and formality were gone, as it emerged that Lord Baratheon was a very avid drinker, and prone to boasting besides, slurringly declaring he'd win the melee the next day and use the price money to dress both her and her horse entirely in cloth-of-gold and so much jewellery she wouldn't even be able to get in the saddle.

At this point, the enormous hall was filled with activity as many had left their places and mingled. There was a fool making the rounds, musicians had begun to play, servants swarmed with what was likely the largest amount of wine and ale that had ever been consumed within one night, and a troupe of fire dancers had taken up in one corner. Drawing much less attention, there was a man of the Night's Watch, who would gather young knights and squires around him whenever he could to find recruits. Strangely enough, Ben seemed quite drawn to his message.

And then, there was the dancing. It all began with young Lady Celia, who was not yet betrothed and thus partnered with one of her brothers, quickly followed by the prince and princess. Of course, Lord Robert danced with Lyanna, doing better than she'd expected, but worse than he likely could have if he'd had less to drink. The true centre of attention, however, was Lady Ashara Dayne.

Ser Arthur's sister was Dornish beauty with dark hair and striking violet yes, and they watched her dance with Ser Barristan Selmy, and Lord Connington, and Prince Oberyn. Neither Bran nor Lyanna could miss the way Ned was watching.

“You know, brother dear”, Bran said after returning to the table from his fourth dance, “the lady will not dance with you if you don't ask.”

Ned's face turned red. “What makes you think I would want to?” He seemed very defensive. “I am no great dancer either way.”

“Oh, you're not bad, Ned”, Lyanna said. “Just ask her.”

“Why would she want to dance with me?” Ned was looking around, fearful than anyone could overhear them, and clearly having forgotten about pretending that he wasn't interested. “She can have anyone she wants.”

“Truly, Ned”, Bran had his arm around him, “if I have learned one thing about women, it is that you will not gain anything from not approaching them. I have inquired, and the lady is unpromised; there is no betrothed who could possibly take offence.”

“_Ask”_, Lyanna added. “There can be no harm. What will she do, refuse you? I doubt it. She danced with Ser Barristan, and he is twice her age. At the very least, she will agree in order to be polite.”

Ned pressed his lips together, staring at the table, and Bran sighed in a very dramatic way before pulling him to his feet. “If you will not do it yourself, I will do it for you”, he said, beginning to drag Ned towards where Lady Ashara was standing and chatting to the princess.

He looked absolutely horrified, which Lyanna could understand well enough. He wouldn't be in this position if he'd just done it himself, she decided, and after realising she was now sitting by herself, she made to follow the two.

Ned's face was the colour of a ripe strawberry by the time she reached them, but Lady Ashara was smiling brightly and took his arm. As the two walked towards the dancing crowd, Bran said something to Princess Elia that made her smile wryly.

Lyanna reached them at the same time as Prince Oberyn. “What a happy coincidence”, he said. “I was just going to ask my sweet sister to dance, but if my lady would not mind?” He offered her his arm. “I trust Lord Baratheon will have no objection.”

They looked around to find Robert in an apparent drinking contest with Ser Richard Lonmouth. “He will not”, Bran decided. “Now, Your Grace, if your royal husband would not protest...”

They saw Rhaegar speaking to Ser Arthur and Lord Connington halfway across the hall. He looked towards them with a smile, and Lyanna quickly turned away.

“Oh, not at all”, Princess Elia said, taking Bran's arm even before he could raise it. “Though I must warn you, my lord, my child is making me somewhat less graceful.”

Before Lyanna could hear Bran's response, Prince Oberyn had led her away, and soon, she found herself being spun around with some dramatic flourish. The next steps brought her face to face with the prince.

“My lady of Stark”, he said, black eyes gleaming with apparent curiosity. “We have all been dying to finally meet you.”

_Who are “we”?_, she wondered. “The way down from Winterfell is long”, she said. “I will be much closer to the capital in Storm's End, of course.”

He gave her another spin, then asked: “And when will that be, my lady? Will you be subjected to travelling all the way back and then south again after this tournament?”

These weren't just pleasantries, she realised. When exactly she'd be wed was of larger significance, after all. “That is for my betrothed and my lord father to decide”, she said sweetly, in an attempt to say nothing. “What about you, my lord prince? I have never heard of you being betrothed.”

“Oh, I have four daughters already”, Prince Oberyn replied, much to her astonishment. “I feel no need for a wife.” He laughed when he saw her face, and spun her again.

“We do things differently in Dorne”, he said. “You might want to come visit one day, my lady; perhaps as my sister's guest.”

He seemed to assume she would get along very well with the princess. _If only he knew._

“I am sure it is lovely”, Lyanna said. “I must admit that I haven't seen much sun in my life. Have you ever been to the North, my lord?”

“Seven, no”, he said, and now it was her turn to laugh. “Truth be told, I would fear freezing off my privates.”

Another spin. “We only have _light_ snows in summer”, Lyanna explained. “You might want to visit then.”

Prince Oberyn looked thoughtful. “I should like to see the Wall, of course, and to learn more about those gods of yours.”

That was a strange thing to say for a southerner, she thought. “You could begin here”, she said. “Harrenhal has a weirwood.”

“I have always wondered.” A spin. “Does a heart tree need to be a weirwood? If one had a godswood with an oak, for instance, would that mean the old gods were not truly present?”

She considered that, quite surprised at the direction their conversation had taken. “I do not know”, Lyanna finally admitted, though she was also loath to share too much on this topic. “The old gods are everywhere, of course; they were the gods of all of Westeros before the Andals came. They are the gods of _all_ the trees and all nature, but weirwoods are especially powerful.”

He seemed distracted as he spun her now. “One more thing, my lady, if you would not mind”, the prince said. “Do you believe smokeberries to be of any significance to your gods?”

Lyanna furrowed her brow. “I am afraid we do not have those in the North.”

“They are round, thick berries that grow on vines”, he said, while she was increasingly confused. “One can make wine of them. They have a thick juice the colour of blood.”

_The gods do like blood_, she almost said. “I am afraid I cannot help you, my lord. But the old gods are those of all of nature, as I said. If they decided that these berries held significance, then they would.”

That didn't seem to be what he wanted to hear, judging by his face. Just then, the dance came to an end.

“Thank you very much, my lady”, the prince said with a bow before quite abruptly taking his leave. Lyanna was left looking after him, confused, when Bran appeared behind her. “What happened?”, he asked, making her realise that her face had betrayed her.

“He just had many questions about the gods”, she said, and her brother raised his eyebrows. “So did she.”

Just then, both noticed shouts from another part of the hall, where several lords and ladies were pressuring the prince to sing.

He gave in quickly, and attendees began to gather around him with some reverence. Lyanna couldn't resist, much like everyone else – soon, she found herself on a chair in a large circle around Rhaegar, with a cup of wine someone had pushed into her hand. Benjen was with her, going on about what the Night's Watch recruiter had been saying, but stopped when Lord Connington began to shush everyone in the vicinity.

The prince sat upon a table, a silver harp on his lap. It was a perfect picture: his harp and hair and jewellery shining in the candlelight, his position on the table much higher than the crowd around him – many ladies sitting, most men standing behind them, a large number looking like they expected something of significance.

Rhaegar began to string his harp, announcing the translated version of a Lysene song a visitor had once played him and his lady wife. Soon, an ethereal melody filled the air. Lyanna couldn't quite believe the way his fingers moved; how anyone could find the right strings with such ease and often so many _at once_, and how any human being could produce such music. And that was before he started singing.

It was a song of great beauty and sadness, and, strangely enough, one she could identify with all too well. The prince sang of love and loss and the inevitability of doom, telling the story of a noble in Lys who knew there was an old curse upon his family; one which could only be lifted if he married one maid – but she was promised to another; a man in Myr. The wedding went ahead and one of the regular wars broke out over the Disputed Lands, which lead to the Lysene man meeting his love's husband upon the battlefield. The Myrish man slew him by crushing his chest with a mace, and the Lyseni died with the maid's name upon his lips.

Despite herself, Lyanna wept. It wasn't only the haunting beauty of the music, but also the story – what _if_ the talks between her father's alliance and the prince went awry, and she had to marry Robert as war broke out, and then he killed Rhaegar in battle? The curse could never be lifted, meaning in her case the inevitable destruction of all life in about a generation.

He was looking at her again. Maybe it was the intensity of the moment or maybe she was going mad, but Lyanna was sure that there was intent behind that gaze; that it was no accident that the prince looked straight at her while the last sounds of the harp filled the Hall of the Hundred Hearths.

The spell was broken when Ben giggled into her ear. “Oh, look at you”, he said, in that insufferable way he'd acquired ever since the first few hairs had appeared on his face, “crying at the prince's sad song.” She turned to glare at him, wiping the tears from her face, to see his expression turn apologetic. “Last time I saw you cry, you were eight”, he said.

Of course he'd caught her. How was Lyanna meant to act like she _didn't_ care about the prince, now? In an action that was more impulsive than anything else, she lifted her untouched cup of wine and poured its entire contents out over Ben's head.

A snort came from Bran and a very loud sigh from Ned, and she became much more aware of her surroundings. A good half of the guests had been crying, she realised when she looked around, but were now staring at her with varying degrees of amusement.

Not knowing how else to help herself, Lyanna straightened her shoulders and put on a defiant face. Next to her, Ben was both grinning and cursing and wiping wine out of his face. She didn't dare look at the prince, but saw both Martells smirk – though no reaction was as noticeable as Robert Baratheon's, whose booming laugh drowned out all other sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking hell can you imagine having magical visions about someone for years and constantly being told you need to have their child, and then actually meeting them? The horror. I very much imagined it like having a crush on someone from afar and then suddenly needing to interact with them, but like, much worse.
> 
> No idea what kind of dances they have in Westeros; it's never really elaborated upon. There's definitely dancing between just two people, as that comes up a lot and especially in reference to Harrenhal, while Sansa's wedding shows us that there is some amount of spinning, as well as the opportunity for people to speak, though also dances where partners switch. I'd assume that there are different kinds, but more importantly, that the kind of dance where it's just the two partners and they can talk does exist.
> 
> Elbert Arryn was Jon Arryn's nephew (younger brother's son, in this case) and heir until he was (in canon) killed by Aerys, since he was part of the group of young nobles riding down to King's Landing with Brandon after Lyanna's abduction. 
> 
> It doesn't say that there were any Boltons present in canon, and it doesn't really have an impact here; I just couldn't imagine Roose not wanting to weasel his way in if it's actually a politically important event. He won't really matter much in this, considering that this isn't exactly a time of Stark weakness he could take advantage of, but I just couldn't imagine that he wouldn't come along.


	15. Harrenhal, Day 2 - Rhaegar

_The second day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Melee; archery contest_

The first contest of the tournament was of such scale that even Harrenhal did not have enough space for it, and was thus held outside the gates. Rhaegar had declined to participate in the melee and was watching with the most highborn guests from the colossal castle walls. This position gave them a clear view of the goings-on outside, where knights were presently charging at each other from seven sides – and presented a good opportunity to organise the next day's less official proceedings.

Jon, Richard, Myles, and Oberyn were all somewhere down there fighting their way through, but Arthur was not, having very kindly decided to forego his chance at glory in favour of helping Rhaegar. Perhaps it was meant to somehow comfort Jaime Lannister, who had been sent to King's Landing this very morning. It had been the king's command, but Rhaegar didn't mind, as this eliminated Lord Tywin's most obvious possible spy.

Now, Arthur was busy running from one lord to another, telling everyone who mattered and also wasn't participating in the fight to convene in the Hunter's Hall after the axe-throwing the following day. Rhaegar watched him speak to a nodding Lord Arryn before turning to the Starks – Lord Brandon taking part in the melee, Arthur addressed Eddard. Inevitably, Rhaegar's gaze met Lady Lyanna's.

She was, in fact, more beautiful than Lord Baratheon's portrait of her had had them believe, which Elia was none too happy about. Rhaegar could sympathise with her misgivings, sharing them to a large extent. The political situation was too delicate, the ramifications of taking a second queen would be enormous even in different times, and why would he need another wife? He had Elia already, and she was more than he deserved. The fact that she had eventually accepted the matter had only emphasised this, as if he hadn't already known that she was everything good in the world and should by all rights have a far better husband.

And yet: Lyanna Stark. As she had before, she held his gaze for too long, and Rhaegar had to admit to himself that he was genuinely drawn to her, weak man that he was. It wasn't even her beauty, but rather what he'd seen in her eyes when they'd been introduced – her all in white and silver; a maid wearing the colours of the Mother. There'd been recognition, he'd thought, as if she somehow _knew_. Which wasn't too unlikely, in the end, if those old gods of hers had given even him visions. He thought he felt a certain kinship, even though they'd never exchanged a single word.

Elia's elbow in his ribs reminded him to look away, and Rhaegar quickly looked back at the melee below, now in full swing. Robert Baratheon was knocking one man off his horse after the other, Richard had already fallen, and Jon was presently crushing a man's elbow with his blunted sword.

“You are being too obvious”, Elia told him very quietly, then shouted: “Oberyn! For Dorne!” when they saw one of the many Freys yield to her brother, the tip of his spear very close to his face (blunted, too, but who could ever be sure that the Red Viper would play fairly?).

“Is there much to be gained by being more subtle?”, he asked. They still didn't know how, but it had been decided that Rhaegar would need to publicly and officially wed Lady Lyanna – Elia had absolutely hated his idea of simply running off with her to get married in secret, declaring that it would likely be seen as an abduction.

Behind his wife, he could see Arthur moving on to Lord Tully after Eddard Stark had given his assent. “I would think you should not draw any suspicion before we know what we are doing”, she said. “I will invite her for tea tomorrow and get the measure of her, assuming she will not insist on following the horse race with her brothers.”

They had both agreed that Elia would need to get close to Lady Lyanna first; nothing was suspicious about a princess spending time with a high lady.

“Your Graces!” They were interrupted by Mace Tyrell and his Hightower wife. Both close to Rhaegar and Elia's age, Lord Mace was a jolly man beginning to grow large around the waist, while Lady Alerie was tall, graceful, and well-known to possess the brains in the marriage. “A splendid display”, Lord Tyrell proclaimed with a nod at the simulated carnage underneath. “I cannot wait for my boys to be old enough to fight in their own tournaments.”

“You have three, my lord, do you not?”, Elia asked, smiling at Lady Alerie. “It must be very taxing.”

“Oh, but such a joy.” He thought she sounded slightly sarcastic. “But, Your Graces, we now are expecting another.”

Rhaegar glanced down at her belly, which did not yet show. “Congratulations are in order, then”, he said. “It is a pleasure to see House Tyrell flourish so.” Especially since their children were far too young to be part of the web of betrothals tying the Great Houses together.

“We are hoping for a girl”, Mace said. “Or, truth be told, my mother is.”

The legendary Lady Olenna. “That would be splendid”, Elia said. “A companion for our Rhaenys, perhaps.”

Apparently, the traditional enmity between Dorne and the Reach was not on Lord Tyrell's mind as he beamed at the suggestion. “A wonderful idea”, he said, quite eagerly. “And while we are speaking of matters concerning the future...”, he turned to Rhaegar, lowering his voice, “it was my impression that Your Grace had planned to do just that on this occasion -”

He cut him off by raising his hand, and didn't miss Lady Alerie looking dismayed at her husband's forwardness. “On the morrow, my lord”, Rhaegar said. “In the Hunter's Hall, after the axe throwing. Until then, you would do well to not speak of such matters.”

Mace blustered his apologies, but was interrupted by shouts from their left. “Winterfell!”, the Starks cheered.

Down in the melee, Lord Brandon was going up against Robert Baratheon. This was something Rhaegar couldn't miss; the spectacle aside, he had the feeling that it might be good to know which of the two would be more difficult to beat.

Despite the countless other fights happening simultaneously, the two of them drew more attention than most. Two very large men on enormous destriers, Lord Baratheon with his antler helm and war hammer; Brandon Stark in a white wolf pelt, wielding a longsword and shield.

“Lord Baratheon will win”, Lord Tyrell predicted. “He has more strength.”

Rhaegar considered this. “Perhaps”, he said. “But Lord Brandon seems more sure on his horse. If he can only -”

The point of Baratheon's war hammer hit Stark's shield – and appeared to be stuck. Brandon used this to force Lord Robert closer, but Robert freed his foot from its stirrup and, in a display of unexpected flexibility, kicked Brandon's torso while yanking his hammer free.

Brandon managed to hang on to his reins, but was only saved from Robert's next swing as Oberyn charged Robert; he and Stark were on the same side in the melee. Moments later, Oberyn was fighting Robert as Brandon was being engaged by one of Lord Whent's sons.

Disappointed grumbling was coming from the Starks, though it mostly seemed to be the youngest boy. Rhaegar had to smirk at the memory of seeing his face as the wine ran down his head. Whatever he had said to his sister, it had embarrassed her. It was good to know how she reacted to such a situation, and he had to admit that he'd found her bashful yet defiant expression afterwards endearing.

“Oh, come _on_”, they now heard her shout in a quite unladylike way. Rhaegar could understand her frustration, however; Brandon was clearly a much better fighter than Whent, and yet still seemed to be struggling.

“It appears our lady of Stark half wishes she were down there herself”, Lord Tyrell remarked. Lady Lyanna's hands were grabbing the wall while she leaned forward, obviously completely engrossed in the spectacle, seeming close to baring her teeth.

“She is a wolf, my lord”, Elia said. “Perhaps that is something Lord Baratheon should quickly come to understand.”

A cheer broke out when Brandon disarmed his opponent and pushed him off his horse. Elia clapped with a smile directed at the Starks, only to lose it as soon as a swing of Robert's hammer threw Oberyn to the ground.

“Do you not think it curious that she cheered for Lord Brandon?”, Elia asked when they'd returned to her chambers.

Rhaegar was rolling out his rug with the seven-pointed star. “Her brother? That seems like a very normal thing to do.”

Elia clicked her tongue. “Do you not remember the tourney at Storm's End? When you rode against Oberyn, I made sure everyone heard me supporting _you_; my betrothed. And yet Lady Lyanna cheered for her brother even when he was fighting Lord Baratheon. Her betrothed.”

While Elia threw pieces of frankincense into the hearth, he filled a cup made entirely of gold with the finest Arbor wine. “Perhaps she is not as politically astute as you.”

“Well, precisely.” She went to searching through one of his chests. “Although I did want you to win, but that is beside the point. If she cheered for Brandon, she did so sincerely.”

In a different chest, Rhaegar found three heavy golden chains, studded with ambers, the Father's sigil engraved in each stone. “So she likes her brother better than her betrothed”, he said. “That, too, appears quite normal.”

Elia groaned, having found the lion's tail she'd been looking for, as well as a leather pouch filled with different feathers. “What I am saying, my love, is that this at the very least implies that she is not entirely taken by Robert.”

Rhaegar hummed. “Mayhaps. They did seem to get along quite well at the feast last night.” He was going through his dried herbs and flowers, picking out goldencups and marigolds, laurel leaves and saffron threads.

There was a sharp knock on the door. “Prince Oberyn”, Arthur's voice announced.

“Enter”, Rhaegar replied. His good-brother came dressed in yellow, which was helpful to their purpose, and had clearly had a bath after the melee, his long black hair hanging wet and heavy.

“Oh well”, he said, dramatically falling into a chair. “I am with you now. Robert Baratheon can go to all seven hells.”

Elia laughed while Rhaegar very carefully placed the cup with Arbor Gold at the hearth, just next to the hot coals, and added the dried flowers. “Poor you”, she said. “I am sure he cheated somehow.”

Oberyn huffed. “I wish _I_ had cheated. See?” He impatiently pulled at the fabric of his linen tunic until the whole ensemble moved enough to show them part of his shoulder. A bruise was beginning to form, and would doubtlessly hurt for a while. “I do not usually leave men alive after they strike me. Of course, if I poisoned him, things would be easier for all of us.”

As had been expected, Oberyn's initial reaction to Rhaegar's plans had been pure, hot rage. If it hadn't been for Elia, he likely would've drawn steel, and maybe even attacked.

It had taken the entire night, spent in an inn a day's ride from Harrenhal, to resolve the situation. Elia had eventually sent Rhaegar out of the room, which led to him spending several hours outside under the guise of looking for inspiration for new songs, until she'd finally asked him to return. By then, a chair had been broken, Oberyn's knuckles had been bloody, and he'd still looked at him quite murderously – but at least he'd been looking at him.

He only accepted it all because he'd known about the prophecy for so long, that much was clear. “Did you learn anything from speaking to Lady Lyanna last night?”, Elia asked him now, as Rhaegar handed him one of the chains.

“Two things.” Oberyn hung it around his neck. “One, she did not know anything about smokeberries in particular, which apparently do not exist in the North, but she does believe that the old gods could use anything coming from nature.”

Another confirmation of the truth of their tale. “Second”, Oberyn continued, “she did not say when exactly she would be wed, and I had the impression that she truly does not know. I could imagine that it might depend on the talks.”

Elia sighed. “Brandon did not offer any more insight than that. The only thing I learned is that the Starks will travel to Riverrun with Lord Tully after the tourney for his wedding to Lady Catelyn, but that is not truly new.” She took her chain from Rhaegar. “On the other hand, we are now invited to the wedding, if only out of curtesy.”

“It might not be the worst idea to take him up on that”, Rhaegar said. “Lord Hoster can hardly deny us. Should Lyanna not be wed within the next few days, which I would truly hope, and should we need more time with her...”

The chain was heavy on his shoulders. “Perhaps”, Elia agreed. She'd taken a hawk's feather out of the pouch and handed it to him.

All felt silent, and Rhaegar strung his harp. Using a golden-hilted dagger set with amber and topaz, he then cut off a part of the feather as well as a few hairs from the lion's tail, and threw them into the hearth, careful to miss the cup of heating wine. It smelled foul, but served a purpose.

“Father Above”, Rhaegar intoned, “grant the lords of this realm the wisdom to judge us wisely. Give us the strength to persuade them to our cause, for all we aim to achieve is to avoid bloodshed between Your children.”

“Father Above”, Elia and Oberyn replied behind him, “bring justice to the realm.”

With the end of his sleeve wrapped around his fingers for protection from the heat, Rhaegar picked up the golden cup. “Oh Father, watch us with the eye of a hawk”, he said, turning to the Martells. “You who sits in judgement of us all; Father to kings and princes...”

It would be a long ritual, but they could use any divine help they could get.

The archery contest was held in the afternoon, though Rhaegar had little interest in its outcome. As was often the case in tourneys, the spectators were far more important to watch than the contest.

Arthur was busy seeking out the lords who'd been part of the melee earlier, Robert Baratheon the most powerful among them. From his seat on the dais, he could see how they briefly spoke and Lord Baratheon nodded, glancing at him, before Arthur returned to his position behind Rhaegar and Elia, while Robert went to greet the arriving Starks.

Lady Lyanna smiled at him, though Rhaegar could not tell whether this was genuine or merely polite. “Lord Robert and Lord Brandon appear to be getting along”, Elia observed, whispering to him. “Although this will not last, if my vision all those moons ago is to be believed.”

He remembered what she'd said she'd seen; the two men seeming to argue, with a young woman behind them. “Is she the maid you saw?”, he asked.

“Yes.” Elia watched them say their goodbyes as all made to reach their places, Lord Robert seeming very happy. “It does not appear that meeting her has made him any less enthusiastic about the match.”

As the Starks walked past, Rhaegar thought he could see Lady Lyanna's smile fall. “Perhaps the same does not apply to her”, he said, dearly hoping he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All we know of the melee is that it was seven-sided (so, presumably, seven teams), and that Robert “unhorsed many”. From that we can gather that everyone was mounted, and it seems likely that you defeated someone by throwing them off their horse (or, I'd assume, having them yield).  



	16. Harrenhal, Day 3 - Elia

_The third day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Horse race; axe-throwing contest_

The girl appeared quite shy when she arrived in the princess' great pavilion outside Harrenhal's walls; unsure of herself. Elia supposed that she likely wasn't used to the company of highborn southern ladies, considering Winterfell's isolation.

“Oh, come sit next to me, my lady”, Elia told her, invitingly tapping a seat right by hers. She'd kept the circle small: only herself, Ashara Dayne, Alerie Tyrell, and Celia Whent. Her pavilion allowed them to watch the horse race unfold – or pay no mind to it at all, and chat and drink tea instead.

“That is a beautiful fur on your collar, Lady Lyanna”, Lady Alerie said, dressed so differently from the northern girl – emerald silk and cloth-of-gold instead of white velvet and grey lambswool. “I would think it was fox, if it were not of such a brilliant white.”

“It is fox”, Lyanna said, her northern tones so unfamiliar. “In the North, we have ice foxes. They are completely white and hide in the snow.”

“How interesting”, Ashara said as servants poured tea made from many different herbs into cups containing dried petals of roses and dragon's breath, which would give a beautiful red colour to their drinks. “It sounds quite like the way our animals in Dorne are made perfectly for the desert, does it not, Your Grace?”

Elia smiled. “The gods have made everyone and every thing in just the right way.”

“Oh, that is wonderful”, gasped Lady Celia as her tea was poured, red flowing out from the flower petals like clouds. “Is this what ladies drink in the capital, Your Grace?”

Celia Whent was a fair maid of four-and-ten, and seemed to dearly wish she lived in King's Landing. “Occasionally”, Elia said, having grown tired of the girl's questions in the last two days. Rhaegar thought that wine and ale would be harmful to their child, and while she longed for a nice glass of red, she'd come to enjoy the warmth brought by tea.

“I so wish we were not so far away from everything, here in the Riverlands”, Lady Celia continued, sighing quite dramatically. “You must be terribly lonely in the North, Lady Lyanna.”

The Stark girl set down her cup, having had a small sip even though it was scalding hot. “We have each other”, she said. “It is quite difficult to feel lonely with three brothers, though I need not tell you that, my lady.” Celia had four.

Trumpets interrupted their conversation, heralding the beginning of the race. Oberyn was competing, as was Brandon Stark, along with two Whents, Mace Tyrell, and many more.

“How come Lord Baratheon is not participating?”, Lady Alerie wondered as the race had started, dozens of knights leaving large clouds of dirt behind them as their steeds began the first of seven rounds. Soon, they would be so far away from their pavilion that they could only tell them by the faint outline of their banners.

Elia saw Lady Lyanna smile ever-so-slightly. “My betrothed is planning on saving his strength for the joust”, she said. “Though my brother Brandon swears that Lord Baratheon does simply not want to be beaten by him.”

There it was, again: favour shown to the brother. “Lord Brandon seems to be a proficient rider”, Elia remarked as they watched him become part of the group leading the race, hard on Oberyn's heels. “Does House Stark have a great passion for horses?”

Lyanna looked towards her, but didn't meet her eyes, which Elia had noticed before. “Some of us do, Your Grace”, she said. “I quite enjoy riding myself.”

Ashara was watching the group of men following the race on the other side of the course. “But not my lady's other brothers?”, she asked.

Elia suppressed a smirk. “You must understand, Lady Lyanna”, she said, conspiratorially bending towards her, “our lady of Dayne is quite curious about your family. One brother in particular, perhaps.”

While Ashara blushed (as if she couldn't handle a small bit of teasing), Lyanna seemed surprised. “It was very kind of you to take pity on my dear Ned at the dance, Lady Ashara.”

Elia didn't think that it had been pity, exactly. Ashara always took a liking to quiet men.

“Oh, it was nothing”, she – mumbled, to Elia's astonishment, hiding behind her cup. “Lord Eddard was most galant.”

Lady Alerie had been following the exchange with a raised eyebrow, while Lady Celia seemed to be admiring the spread of delicacies set before them. “We are so lucky to be surrounded by galant men”, Elia said, changing the topic to give her friend some respite – and, hopefully, come to better understand Lyanna. “Lord Baratheon, for instance. You must be so looking forward to your wedding, Lady Lyanna.”

The girl didn't immediately respond, suddenly having an almond-filled date in her mouth. “Who would not be?”, Lady Alerie stepped in. “I regret to tell my lady that Storm's End is a dreary place, but at least Lord Robert is pleasant to look upon.”

“My betrothed is very handsome”, Lyanna agreed, finally free to speak. “I am very fortunate.”

While Elia was sure that Lady Alerie and Ashara had noticed how badly feigned Lyanna's enthusiasm was, Lady Celia had not. “I hope my lord father will betroth me to a man as strong and courageous as Lord Baratheon”, she said wistfully, watching the race in the distance.

Most of the riders had completed half of the first round by now. Oberyn, Brandon Stark, and Ser Arthur were at the front.

“If the race continues like this, it will be one of our brothers”, Ashara said. “Arthur has promised me the horse in case he wins.”

The price was a beautiful palfrey as black as the bats on House Whent's sigil, accompanied by twenty thousand dragons – Elia still could not quite get her head around just how much money they had spent on this tournament, but there was no price to be put on peacefully removing the king.

“Brandon said he would give it to his betrothed”, Lady Lyanna said. “I hope for Lady Catelyn's sake that she enjoys riding.”

“And that she does not mind the cold, one would presume”, Alerie added before taking a bite of a custard tart topped with strawberries.

“Oh, the Lady Catelyn will surely enjoy the North”, Lady Celia said. “And you will love her dearly, Lady Lyanna. She is kind, and very comely.”

Elia hoped that Catelyn Tully was well-prepared for her marriage – she'd be the first truly southern Lady of Winterfell one day.

“What will your princely brother do if he wins, Your Grace?”, Lady Alerie asked. “Have you been promised a horse as well?”

She laughed. “Oberyn will complain it is not a sand steed, and still keep it for himself.”

Alerie raised her eyebrows. “And His Grace is not competing once more. Is he, too, saving his strength for the joust?”

At the mention of her husband, she noticed Lady Lyanna straighten herself, the subject apparently having piqued her interest. “Our prince has little thirst for winning glory at a tourney”, she said, watching Lyanna, who was very intently looking at her tea. “But he will, of course, enter the lists on the morrow.”

“I have heard His Grace is an excellent jouster”, Celia said. “It will just be wonderful to see all these great knights.”

There were shouts from the riding grounds, where a horse had fallen. From this distance, they couldn't make out the arms of the man on the ground, nor the extent of his injuries.

These competitions were impressive, Elia thought, but dangerous nonetheless.

Like everything in this castle, the Hunter's Hall, too, was far larger than it needed to be. Lords and the occasional lady were streaming in through two wide doors on the opposite side from where Rhaegar and Elia were sitting, their voices and colourful clothing not quite able to fill the empty space left in the hall.

Everything had been planned carefully. The royal couple sat atop two large chairs, slightly raised, while all other seating was arranged in a semicircle before them. The attendees were of a smaller number than what would have been required by an official Great Council – but then, this was far from official. As things stood, this was nothing but an attempt at conspiracy against the king, though Elia hoped that the histories would name it differently.

Oberyn was there, of course, savouring his victory at the horse race. All Wardens or Lords Paramount, or at least representatives of their Houses were present – safe for the Greyjoys, though they feared no resistance from the Iron Islands, and of course the Lannisters. They hadn't constrained the invitations to the Great Houses, however. Naturally, the Whents were there, as were several Freys and Ser Myles Mooton for the Riverlands. There were members of the Houses Hightower and Redwyne from the Reach, Royce and Waynwood from the Vale, Manderlys and Lord Bolton from the North, Lord Dondarrion from the Stormlands, along with the unavoidable Jon Connington as well as Richard Lonmouth. Dorne was also represented by Lady Allyrion along with Ashara speaking for House Dayne, while Anders Yronwood was unfortunately present as well. From the Westerlands, there were only Westerlings and Spicers – slim pickings, but Lord Tywin had long made sure that all his vassals were either powerless or perfectly loyal. Along with all these Houses, more were arguably represented by the wives some of the lords had brought along.

Everyone was filing into place, though the seats were not assigned. Arranged in two rows, it was interesting to spot how those representing the Great Houses confidently took the front positions, though some of their bannermen had no reservations about sitting beside them. And then there was Lord Yronwood, who took a seat in the front row, but far removed from Oberyn. Presumably, he still blamed her brother for his father's death, justly enough. Baelor Hightower sat next to the Tyrells with his Rowan wife, and Elia briefly imaged a different world in which she was at his side in this situation, looking up to Rhaegar and Cersei Lannister.

If those marriages had taken place, she thought, things would have gone too differently, and this whole charade of a tourney would likely not have happened at all.

After the last attendee had sat down, a quiet came over those assembled as they expectantly looked up at her husband. Rhaegar was outwardly confident, sitting upright yet relaxed, his gaze wandering over the lords and ladies. On the inside, Elia knew, he was well-aware of the importance of today's proceedings.

“My lords”, he said. “My ladies. I thank you all for coming.” The doors shut, the entire area around the hall surrounded by Rhaegar's own guard. “The matter of which we must speak is grave, and a dangerous topic to raise. But no truth may be left unspoken in order to ensure the good of the realm.” A pause for suspense, while all knew why they were here.

“My father the king is mad”, Rhaegar said, and now, there was no more turning back. “He is a cruel man who delights in inflicting suffering on others. He believes every shadow to be an enemy, and yet easily succumbs to flattery. He bases his decisions on his pride and his delusions. He would order to have every single man and woman in this room killed if he knew of our purpose, including myself as well as each and every one of you, no matter how powerful.”

Now, they were all implicated, and all aware that they had to side against Aerys – since working towards Rhaegar's downfall would be to work towards their own. “In short”, her husband said, “the king is no longer fit to rule. To permit him to continue to do so would be to knowingly and willingly let the realm suffer. Does anyone here disagree?”

Silence, as looks were exchanged. Then, Lord Redwyne rose from his seat next to Mace Tyrell and cleared his throat. “Your Grace”, he said, “there is no doubt that you speak true when you list your sire's faults. However, he is the king, and to depose His Grace would be to create a precedent I am sure you would not wish to see. If the king looses his crown before his death, would that not threaten the stability of your royal House's rule for generations to come? Not to speak of the example it would create for all other rulers of these Seven Kingdoms. The king must remain on the throne until he dies, and I am sure that you are not suggesting to hasten his demise.”

Many others nodded along, but Elia was unconcerned. They'd expected that to come up.

“Your concerns are justified, my lord”, Rhaegar said as Redwyne sat down, “and shared by me. It goes without saying that I do not wish to see my father meet the gods before his time, nor do I intend to strip him of his kingship.” He let that sink in, ensuring that everyone knew that this was not a plot to murder Aerys. “There have been many kings, of course, who have retained the title while they did not rule. While this usually applies to young boys, I believe that it must also be a possibility for those who lose their capacity to govern after a time. I am suggesting a regency.”

No-one appeared surprised at that. “And the regent”, a Frey said, “would be yourself, good prince?”

Lord Connington stood. “My lords and ladies”, he said, “I know that I am not the only one who has long looked forward to the day when the Prince of Dragonstone would take the Iron Throne. We all know His Grace as a man who is just and wise beyond his years, both valiant and prudent, and beloved by both the highborn and the smallfolk. What better qualities in a king?” Connington was always excellent at praising Rhaegar, most likely because he believed every single word he was saying. “The Iron Throne is his birthright”, he continued. “And would pass to him after the king's death either way. There is nobody but him who should be regent.”

Some of the attendees voiced their agreement – obviously Oberyn and Rhaegar's former squires Lonmouth and Mooton, but Elia also saw Mace Tyrell nod along (though not his wife), and Lord Whent as well.

Of course, it was the alliance between half the realm that concerned them. When Jon Arryn rose to his feet, Elia knew that he would speak for all four Houses.

“Your Graces”, he said, nodding towards them, “Prince Oberyn, my lords and ladies. I fully agree that a regency is needed, and Lord Connington is right to praise our prince's character and abilities. However, I have a different proposal for the nature of this regency – one that I believe would reassure lords great and small that our voices are heard, while allowing His Grace the Prince of Dragonstone to hone his skills as a ruler until the gods decide that it is time for him to take the throne.”

They knew that the lords would not simply agree to any suggestion they made. If Elia were them, she wouldn't, either – they were now in a position of power, and why would they not try to gain any advantage they could?

“I would suggest”, Lord Arryn said, standing up straight and tall despite his age, “a council of regents, as during the early reign of Aegon the Third. Seven regents, each representing one of the seven kingdoms, and the prince as Hand.”

A murmur went through the crowd, small as it was. As they could have expected, Hoster Tully, Robert Baratheon, and Brandon and Eddard Stark showed no sign of surprise.

This was, of course, an unacceptable offer. Luckily, Rhaegar had supporters within the group of assembled nobles. “Lord Arryn”, Richard Lonmouth said, “the third Aegon was eleven years old when his regency began, and notably did not have a brilliant and capable heir who could reign in his stead. Our current king does. Moreover, this regency is not remembered fondly, and for good reason. Why should we choose years or even decades of squabbling, when we can simply have the future king begin his reign early?”

“His Grace the prince is surely a good man”, Lord Tully opined, “but inexperienced. A few years of ruling alongside a council could shape him into one of the best rulers this realm has ever seen.”

Elia wondered just how many ways they would find to flatter Rhaegar while attempting to deny him the power he ought to have. “And this proposed council of regents”, spoke Baelor Hightower, “is meant to be comprised of which seven lords? I seem to recall that the histories tell us of five years of instability and division, as Ser Richard has pointed out so sagely. Surely, it would be necessary to not only clearly define the members of the council, but also the rules for who would succeed them.”

“My lord of Hightower speaks wisely”, said Lord Royce. “I for one would consider it most appropriate to have the seven lords represent the Seven Kingdoms – all the Wardens and Lords Paramount, or their chosen representatives.”

Elia thought it was quite clear that he had been instructed to suggest this by Lord Arryn, as a great lord could hardly make the suggestion himself.

“There is a problem with that, of course.” Oberyn had risen to his feet. “The Seven Kingdoms have become eight Great Houses. Who would my lords see excluded? Quellon Greyjoy? Tywin Lannister, if you would dare? Or perhaps it should be Lord Tully who abstains from taking on the role, as the Riverlands never were a kingdom to begin with.”

Elia hoped that nobody would suggest Dorne, as you could never know what Oberyn might slip into their wine.

Lord Tully had the wisdom to ignore the provocation, however, and many could see the truth in Oberyn's words.

“My lords”, Dondarrion chimed in, “of course it is prudent to speak of how a regency will look once it is implemented. However, we would all do well to remember that this has not yet occurred. It seems unlikely to me that the king would meekly step away from the throne once asked to, and that his supporters in the capital would offer no resistance.”

“On that.” Rhaegar had spoken again for the first time since the discussion had begun, and all eyes returned to them. “I am more than certain that the combined power of most of the realm, as represented in this room, would serve to dissuade most of my sire's supporters. Others, as well as the Kingsguard, would be most accepting of the change if I announced it as regent.” Elia knew he didn't entirely believe that, but it was a usable argument nonetheless. “As a member of the royal family, Lord Regent, and Protector of the Realm, the Kingsguard would be mine to command. Faced with this, my royal father would go quietly.” Well, not exactly _quietly_, but there would be nobody left to support him.

The meeting went on for much longer after that and ended inconclusively, though they had expected as much. The danger of leaving Tywin Lannister out of their plans was brought up and duly noted, bannermen spoke in support of their lieges while Rhaegar's friends said what he could not, the idea of a council of regents was debated with increasing intensity.

At the end of it, they knew where the different lords and ladies stood, and that all of them supported the idea of instituting a regency in some shape. Now, it would be a matter of speaking to them individually in order to negotiate a more beneficial arrangement – in which Rhaegar would become king in all but name, until Aerys' death would grant him the crown as well. Even though few of those assembled sounded like they would let go of the idea of a council for now, Elia believed that this could still be achieved.

If it weren't for the Lyanna Stark situation, she'd be cautiously optimistic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cat as the first “truly southern” Lady of Winterfell: There was also Alysanne Blackwood, but I think a lot of people in the south (especially from as far down as Elia) wouldn't see the Blackwoods as completely southern – they're originally from the North, barely south of the Neck now, and, crucially, follow the old gods.


	17. Harrenhal, Day 4 - Lyanna

_The fourth day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_First day of the joust_

There would be five days of jousting, and as Lyanna saw just how many men would be competing, she could understand why that much time was necessary. She'd been told that some tourneys only opened the joust to knights, but not this one – in the face of the large number of northern attendees, she was hardly surprised. As a consequence, Bran would join in.

Every single participant rode out on this morning, their names read out by the herald. There were some she'd never heard of; hedge knights and even sellswords who only had first names and cheap armour. The crowd did not care much for them.

Then, there were the great, one looking more splendid than the other. Three knights of the Kingsguard with their pristine white cloaks and plate – Ser Oswell Whent out to bring honour to his House, along with his nephews; Ser Barristan Selmy, older and more experienced; Ser Arthur Dayne brandishing the legendary Dawn. Prince Oberyn Martell rode in on a beautiful Dornish sand steed instead of the mount he'd won at the horse race, Elbert Arryn wore a cloak that moved behind him like wings, Bran was on Lord Dustin's best and had his wolf pelt on besides (she hoped he'd take that off before the first tilt; it had really gotten in his way during the melee), her betrothed had dressed his mount in black and gold and was wearing his antler helmet. He came to her for her favour, which she dutifully tied around the tip of his lance.

Prince Rhaegar wore armour that was entirely black, a three-headed dragon made of rubies on his breastplate. He had a tall helmet shaped like a dragon with scarlet silk attached, streaming behind him in the wind as he rode forth. Lyanna was sure that he inspired the loudest cheers of all.

“Don't you regret you're not competing?”, Ben asked Ned, the brothers sitting on either side of Lyanna. “With two Starks, we could have had a higher chance of victory.”

“I would not come close to winning”, Ned replied. “And I doubt that Bran will. Justing might be mostly about horsemanship, but these southron knights have many more years of training than we do.”

It was strange, she thought. Ned had been raised in the Vale, home to so many proud knights, and yet had never adopted their Andal ways. “Is Lord Robert a strong jouster?”, she asked.

“Not particularly.” She saw Ned's eyes follow his old friend as he rode around. “He has always favoured his war hammer to the lance – or any blade, for that matter. In the south, when they speak of the greatest jousters, they mean Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, and the prince.”

This gave her an excuse to look at Rhaegar again, who had rid himself of his helmet and coif, silver-gold hair tussled by the wind. So he was not only a bizarrely beautiful man and a great singer, but also an esteemed knight.

“Rhaegar this, Rhaegar that”, Ben said, and for a heartbeat she feared he'd somehow heard her thoughts. “If he is so good at everything, why is anyone even doubting that he should be the sole regent?”

Ned shut him down with a look. “It would be best to not speak of such matters on the tourney grounds.” Even though the only people within earshot were Lord Arryn and Lord Tully with his little son; both surely on their side.

The knights had returned to their numerous pavilions and army of squires, and trumpets announced the first tilt. The joust would be opened by one of Lord Whent's sons going up against some Frey – Lyanna could never quite tell them apart, for there were so many and half were named Walder.

“This will take long, won't it?”, Ben asked. “I am not saying that I'm not enjoying this tourney, but things _do_ take time.”

“Very long”, Ned confirmed. “We will be sitting here for hours.”

“I am sure you would rather find the man from the Night's Watch to speak to”, Lyanna remarked. “Though I don't believe that Father would like that.”

He hadn't shut up about the virtues of the Watch since that first feast; about defending the realms of men. Lyanna wondered if he'd also had been talking to the gods.

The Whent and the Frey gave their horses the spurs, and she found herself caught up in the joust. There was something majestic to it – and dangerous. Whent's lance hit Frey's breastplate and shattered into pieces, but the force was enough to send him to the ground with a loud clatter of armour.

She hoped Bran wouldn't get hurt, even though he'd likely enjoy having a scar or two.

As Ned had predicted, they sat there for a long time. Who would go up against whom had been decided by drawing lots, and it quickly resulted in separating the wheat from the chaff: many of those of lesser means lost to the highborn with their superior horses, armour, and training, although some lord's son from the Westerlands was defeated by a hedge knight, and others also made clear that high birth did not always translate into skill. All of Lord Whent's sons lost either their first or second round, though Ser Oswell won his.

At the end of the first day of the competition, everyone Lyanna knew had advanced – but she could easily see that some would fare better than others, as Lord Baratheon for instance didn't seem entirely comfortable with a lance, while Prince Rhaegar rode with dazzling ease and confidence. Robert dipped his head at her as he came past after his victory, and Rhaegar – smiled at her again, she thought. Lyanna wasn't sure if it was sheer politeness or not, but perhaps it wasn't?

She would really need to find a way to approach him.

Princess Elia had come to her after the joust, inviting her to ride out with her and Lady Ashara. Lyanna had had no choice but to accept, of course, and while she knew that her position meant that she should not be surprised at receiving attention from the princess, she still found it slightly overwhelming.

“She means to speak with you about the council”, Bran said when they met him in his tent, having just washed and dressed after the joust. “Do not promise anything, and be careful about whatever you say – but tell us of her every word.”

“Thank you.” Lyanna stood before his armour, studying the direwolf sigil embossed in the breastplate. “I am not _that_ daft, brother.”

“It is not a question of being daft.” Ned was as serious as always. “Elia was raised a princess of Dorne, by a mother who had her betrothed to the future king, and she has survived being Aerys' good-daughter so far. She has more experience than you do, Lya, and you'd do well to remember that.”

Lyanna sighed. “I know.” She found it difficult to make herself care about the Great Council and the regency and any of that, not with what _she_ would somehow need to accomplish, but needs must. “What use it it, anyway? You – we – want a council of regents; the prince and princess want him to rule alone. How could that be reconciled?”

“That is doubtlessly what they are attempting to find out.” Ned and Bran were sitting at a table, Bran polishing a dirk. Ben had, indeed, snuck off to find the man from the Night's Watch. “They will try to divide us; make different offers”, Bran explained. “Lower tariffs and port fees here, more autonomy there, perhaps even a betrothal to Prince Viserys or Princess Rhaenys – all until there are few enough lords left who oppose them, and those will be forced to go along.”

Lyanna turned towards them. “And that cannot be allowed to happen?”, she asked. “It will _have_ to be the council of regents?”

Bran and Ned exchanged a look. “All you need to know is that you should not give Her Grace any ideas”, Ned said.

She groaned. “Wonderful. Keep me out of it all, because why would I need to know? I am only going to wed your friend Robert and be at Storm's End; closer to King's Landing than any Stark has lived before.” She gave the suit of armour a shove, making it clatter on its rack. “What use could I _possibly_ have for any knowledge of such matters?”

Bran chuckled as Ned rose and left the tent. They could hear his steps outside when he walked around it before returning, and sitting down with a nod.

“In truth”, Bran said, “a council of regents would be a great opportunity, and if we could have it, we would. King Aerys is far from old, and it could mean many years of being able to influence the affairs of all the realm.”

Lyanna sat at their table and poured herself some ale, satisfied that she'd be let in on things. “But?”

“But we are of the North, and when have we ever had a need to intervene in such matters?” Bran shrugged. “There are other things we need more urgently. Even if spring is truly here, our food stores are depleted. White Harbor is only slowly recovering from receiving fewer ships in the past years, the wildlings are a nuisance as the Watch has dwindled in numbers and they are able to travel south once more, the winter has been bad for hunting as well – and if it should return, we might truly be in need of help.”

“That does not mean that we would relent before the others”, Ned added before she could ask. “If the prince and princess want to see Rhaegar as sole regent, they will need to convince all of us. Lord Tully, Jon, and Robert. This can only be done by our common agreement.”

“And you are certain that they would not give in?”, she asked, and Ned looked offended. “Of course not. They are men of honour.”

“It is so wonderful that spring has come back”, the princess said as she rode beside Lyanna, Lady Ashara and Ser Arthur several paces behind them. “Mind you, in Dorne we would call this winter, but I suppose we are practically in the North.”

The sun was shining rather weakly through the clouds, but Lyanna had to agree that the spring, false or not, was nice to see. There were flowers growing in the grass and no snow anywhere in sight.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I would say we are quite far from the North.” Harrenhal's walls loomed large behind them, and they'd just made it past the camp outside the gates.

“Oh, of course.” The princess flashed her a smile. “It is all about perspective. I suppose we have this in common; coming from the two extremes of the realm.”

They must have looked just as different, she thought. Elia was wearing a gown made of vermilion satin and golden jewellery with gems in many different colours; Lyanna white damask embroidered with silver thread and moonstones. “Indeed, Your Grace”, she said. “Was it difficult to adjust to King's Landing?”

“We have mostly lived on Dragonstone.” The princess looked out over the gentle hills around them. “It has a dark reputation, but I have found it undeserved. Much joy can be found in a good marriage, no matter where one lives.”

The familiar guilt crept back up in Lyanna. “I hope that my marriage will be just as happy”, she said blandly, and Elia smiled at her in a way she didn't quite understand. “I am sure it will, my lady. Say, will you be wed in a sept, or before a heart tree? Marriages between the faiths are so uncommon.”

“I could not say.” This was veering into dangerous territory; speaking of details of her wedding and thus the alliance. “It will be wherever by dear lord father and my betrothed decide it should be.”

“Of course.” The princess glanced back over her shoulder, where the Daynes were just out of earshot. “I would wager that Lady Ashara would be very interested to hear all about such weddings. Dorne and the North, why not?”

Lyanna had to laugh, mostly because the idea of Ned marrying someone like Ashara Dayne seemed so absurd to her. “I would doubt that her ladyship sees much of an appeal in my poor Ned. He can be quite hopeless.” And Lord Ryswell would be so disappointed at losing out on another Stark match.

“Well, all teasing aside”, Elia said, “it would be an interesting development, fit for interesting times.” Now they'd arrived at speaking of matters of state, she thought, but the princess surprised her. “Tell me, my lady, are you a pious woman?”

Lyanna blinked. “Pious, Your Grace?”

“You know.” The princess waved a hand. “Godly. Devout. Do you spend much time in your godswood?”

What was it with the Martells and their strange interest in the old gods? “Some, of course”, she said. “There is no place as peaceful, and no presence as comforting as that of the gods.” When they weren't placing ridiculous expectations upon her.

A thought hit her, then: the gods weren't as strong in the south. How would she still speak to them if she _did_ end up at Storm's End?

The princess was silent for a heartbeat, and seemed to look quite closely at Lyanna. “This may be a strange question”, she said, not sounding self-conscious in the slightest, “but do you believe that the old gods have a purpose for you, my lady?”

This _had_ to mean something. She didn't quite know what, however, and had no idea as to what she should reply. “Perhaps, Your Grace”, Lyanna simply said.

“Perhaps.” The princess appeared thoughtful. “Gods do tend to be vague, I suppose.”

Lyanna didn't know what she should make of this. “Do you believe it?”, she asked, figuring that she was by now entitled to return the question.

Even more strangely, Elia laughed, if only very briefly. “Do I -”, she said, and then shook her head with a smirk. “Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to pry, nor to disturb you with such cryptic remarks. I best find a septa to bother with such matters.” She was clearly about to say something else, perhaps even change the subject, but Lyanna cut in before she could.

“Those of us who follow the old gods”, she said, slipping her hand into the pocket between the folds of her gown and finding her pouch of runes, “have no priests to speak to. We simply talk to the gods directly. If Your Grace would like to try, Harrenhal has a weirwood.”

She ran her hand through the pieces of bone, by now all consecrated. _Please, dear gods, please tell me what I should say to her; _if_ I should say any more_.

“Well.” The princess was stroking the mane of her horse. “A walk in the godswood, at the very least, would likely help me clear my head. We should have ridden there, in fact; it is surely large enough.”

Lyanna pulled out her hand and glanced at the rune through her fingers. _Ednos_, trust, the same that she'd drawn back when she'd spoken to her mother.

Her heart beat loudly in her chest. “In all truth, Your Grace”, she said quickly, her voice slightly shaking, “I do believe that the gods have a purpose for us all. And that there are things each of us ought to know.”

Elia was looking at her with a new intensity. “What kinds of things, Lady Lyanna?”

For a moment, they stared at each other. The princess knew something, that much was clear, but what? Lyanna could hardly tell her everything – _that I need to have a child with your husband or the world will end_. That would be very dangerous.

“I apologise, Your Grace. I cannot say.” She looked down at her horse's neck. “But I would be very honoured if you were to accompany me to the godswood whenever it is convenient. Perhaps the gods will explain what I cannot.”

She felt Elia's eyes on her. “That sounds wonderful. It is always wise to listen to gods, whichever ones they may be.”

After they'd returned to the castle, Lyanna's thoughts were swirling. She was sure that Elia hadn't just asked her these questions out of a random interest in the old gods; not any more than her brother had at the first night's feast. And then there was the way Prince Rhaegar would look and smile at her – was it possible that they all _knew_? But who would have told them, the Seven?

Prince Oberyn's question about smokeberries came back to her. Juice the colour of blood – that did sound like the old gods.

Wandering back through the castle, Lyanna was so lost in thought that she lost her way entirely. It was such an enormous maze, yet so many parts looked the same, and there were knights and squires in every passage either way. How was she meant to know the way to the Wailing Tower?

Standing in a relatively small corridor, Lyanna looked out into a courtyard, hoping to spot a northern banner. Instead, she saw three older boys, likely squires, laughing and jesting as they kicked another boy lying on the ground.

Anger twisted in her stomach. This was no way to behave. Could she intervene? Looking more closely, she saw the boy's face when one of his attackers' feet briefly freed up the view – and Lyanna realised that this was no boy at all. It was Howland Reed, the crannogman.

With that, the choice was made, and she found herself storming out into the courtyard. These southron twats had _no_ right to be attacking Lord Howland, and – there was a tourney sword on the ground, which she picked up – the Reeds were sworn to the Starks, their service in return for protection; it was owed – “You!”, Lyanna shouted, striding towards them as quickly as her gown allowed, lifting the sword and realising that Ben had been very right that it was heavier than a stick. “Leave him alone!”

The boys turned towards her, eyes widening, before one of them attempted a laugh. “What is a fair maid doing -”

Lyanna slashed at him in a swing Ben had learned from Ser Rodrik. “The fair maid is Lyanna Stark”, she growled, “and that is my father's man you're kicking.” He narrowly got out of the way as she stabbed at him – the blade was surely dull, but it would hurt nonetheless. Lyanna drove forward as she would with Ben in the godswood, nearly tripping over poor Lord Howland on the ground as she hit another of the squires on the shoulder, prompting a pained shout.

One had already run off, and now the other two were turning away. “She's _mad_”, one shouted, trying to save his pride. “Let's leave.”

The other tried to turn back, but she almost hit him on the head. “I would never harm a girl”, he said through gritted teeth, as if that would make her believe that he _could_. Lyanna hacked at him once more, and he was off.

Satisfied, she let her sword drop to the ground and turned to Howland. “I owe you thanks, my lady”, he said, trying to get off the floor.

“You owe me nothing, my lord.” She extended her hand to help him to his feet, where he stood at the same height as her. They'd met before, many years ago when he'd been the same size and she even smaller, but it was clear he was now a man grown from the beard around his chin. There were cuts and bruises on his face, and his shirt of scales was torn. “You will come to my brother's tent”, Lyanna decided. “Those wounds need tending to.”

“I would not wish to impose -” She picked up his three-pronged spear from the ground and handed it to him. “We were your lord father's guests once, at Greywater Watch”, she reminded him. It had been an interesting place. “Now you are ours.”

Lord Howland bowed his head and staggered alongside her, his pride not permitting to take her arm. Lyanna still didn't know how to get to the Wailing Tower, but she'd find the way to Bran's tent.

“I had hoped to speak with you, Lady Lyanna”, he said while they walked. “Though not under such circumstances.”

“You did?” She was intrigued. The crannogmen had a special connection to the gods.

“I have spent the winter at the Isle of Faces”, he said, all matter-of-factly. Lyanna stopped hard in her tracks to stare at him. “How?”, she asked. No man had set foot there since the accord between the First Men and the children of the forest, thousands upon thousands of years ago. It was _impossible_.

But Lord Howland was undisturbed by her surprise. “I heard a call”, he said. “And followed.”

She was still staring at him, searching his face and trying to find any indication of a lie. Did his green eyes _see_ green?

Lyanna decided to keep walking, since his wounds really could use some bandaging. “And?”, she asked.

He limped along beside her. “The gods have a plan for you”, he said. “As you know. You _must _follow it.”

She took a deep breath, suddenly certain that Howland Reed, at the very least, absolutely knew what the gods had asked her to do. That was a relief.

“I am aware.” Would he be able to help her? “But it is a very difficult undertaking, especially with everything else happening in the realm. What if it causes a war?”

“There will never be a war as great as the war for the dawn. It may be difficult to imagine, my lady, but nothing else truly matters.”

Lyanna couldn't quite believe that. Not that she had to have this child; that much she knew. But that the rest wouldn't matter – a war between the lords of this realm could see her brothers killed. Of course it mattered.

They'd reached the tourney grounds, making their way through a sea of tents. “A great deal of things matter. And if you would like me to fulfil the gods' plan, my lord, then we will need to find a way to avert any war at all.”

Bran's tent gave Lord Howland the opportunity clean up and see his wounds tended to, and Ben found clothes for him as well. In the evening, they all took their supper in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, as every day – Lord Howland hadn't wanted to come, clearly shamed by the events of the afternoon, but Lyanna had reminded him that he was of high birth, and attending his right.

“That one over there”, she told Bran, having recognised one of the squires down the hall. Tonight, they were sitting with the other northmen instead of at the high table. “With the knight with the pitchfork on his shield.”

“House Haigh”, he said. “His squire was one of the men who attacked you, Lord Howland?”

“He was.” The crannogman was watching him darkly. “And the tall one there, with the porcupines.”

Bran was mystified. “I don't remember the knight's name, but he won his joust today, as did Haigh.”

“Ned would know”, Ben said, but Ned wasn't with them. He was speaking to Ser Arthur Dayne, quite possibly on matters relating to the Great Council, though it wasn't lost on Lyanna that this meant he wasn't far from Lady Ashara.

Just a few spots down, Lyanna saw the third squire. “The one with the Frey knight”, she said. “He was the last. Gods, I bet he _is_ a Frey as well.” He certainly looked the part.

“Splendid.” Ben raised his cup as if the matter was settled. “You should take your revenge on the lists tomorrow, my lord. I could find you a horse, and some armour that might fit.”

Lord Howland looked slightly pained. “A generous offer, Lord Benjen. Thank you.” He did not accept, though, and Lyanna could see why – she'd been to the Neck, and there weren't many horses around. He likely was no great rider.

She was still furious with those squires, however, and someone _had_ to teach them a lesson. She supposed Lord Howland would be able to do something if he wanted to; work the magic of the crannogmen – but that would not publicly restore his honour. He'd need someone who was at least a decent rider, and hopefully had some support from the gods.

After that thought, the rest was obvious to her.


	18. Harrenhal, Day 5 - Rhaegar

_The fifth day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Second day of the joust_

It wouldn't be Rhaegar's turn on the lists until the afternoon, which was just as well. It meant that he would be able to watch the morning's competition from the dais, and devote more time to matters of the Great Council.

The day before, they'd been busy speaking to the lords and ladies. The Dornish were firmly on their side no matter what, even Lord Yronwood, as one of their own would be queen in all but name with Rhaegar as sole regent. None had any doubt that Elia would take on a more active role than his own mother.

(He'd been trying not to think about her, as that way only lay sleepless nights and an unfamiliar cold rage, but Rhaegar prayed that she was relatively safe. None of the Kingsguard could protect her from his father, but he had performed a ritual that would hopefully rob the king of any desires of the flesh – though when it would wear off, he could not know.)

The Reach had not quite taken a side yet, and Rhaegar could only admire the first Aegon's wisdom in making the Tyrells its overlord; lieges less powerful than their own bannermen. The divisions between them were a blessing.

The Riverlands would be in the same position, had Lord Tully not betrothed his daughter to Brandon Stark. This web of fostering and betrothals was a work of admirable cunning, and now they were firmly stuck in it – as Elia had pointed out, they could only hope to convince all of the four lords to relent, or they'd face opposition from half the realm. The last day had shown no cracks in their alliance, but at least they'd come closer to hearing what other solutions the lords would accept. He was to face Brandon Stark on the lists later, and hoped that Stark's likely defeat (he wasn't bad, but far from the best) wouldn't jeopardise any of this.

And then, there were the Iron Islands, which weren't of too much concern, as Quellon Greyjoy was a wise man with little desire for conflict where it could be avoided. And Tywin Lannister – who would surely be furious at not having been part of things, but would certainly have to recognise that he could not oppose all of the other kingdoms. Still, he'd doubtlessly resent Rhaegar forever, which was far from ideal.

“Who will begin?”, Elia asked him, speaking of the joust.

“Richard, I believe, going up against Lord Baratheon.” On the far end of the lists, they could see Robert readying himself. “This should be interesting.”

“Well, it did not look like Lord Robert was the most passionate of jousters – oh.”

Oh, indeed. Elia had said it in unison with most of the crowd. Riding past Brandon Stark's tent was a knight they hadn't seen before, or perhaps no actual knight: a small man on an unassuming horse, clad in mismatched armour that had clearly been cobbled together from many different suits of plate. The only indication of his identity was on his unusual round shield: a laughing weirwood tree.

“A mystery knight”, Elia said, smiling. “Or no _knight_ at all, I suppose, with that shield.”

Whoever it was, he rode down the lists. The weirwood reminded Rhaegar of what Elia had told him about her conversation with Lady Lyanna. By now, they both hoped that perhaps, she already knew what he thought he'd have to tell her.

“Quite a small northman”, Rhaegar remarked when the rider had reached them, dipping his lance before the dais, then continuing on. “From the Neck, perhaps?”

Elia was watching the figure closely. This also applied to everyone else, of course, as the tourney grounds were filled with hushed whispers – but his wife's expression told Rhaegar that she might know something the others didn't. “There is something very familiar about him”, she said.

Rhaegar watched, too. Really, he wasn't exactly a tall man, and thin besides. “A boy?”, he asked, searching his mind for any adolescent northmen present at the tourney. Only Benjen Stark came to mind.

That would certainly explain the shield. “Perhaps”, Elia said.

The rider approached the other end of the lists, and there, Ser Jaeson Blount. They couldn't understand what was being said, but it was clearly a challenge. The herald was left to announce a tilt between Ser Jaeson and a mystery knight.

Whoever it was, he'd clearly had a fair amount of practice riding, and wasn't holding a lance for the first time in his life – though Rhaegar didn't think that this was a fully trained warrior. His suspicions that it was a highborn boy intensified when Ser Jaeson was thrown off his horse, though the strength with which he was hit surprised him.

The audience – highborn and smallfolk alike – was delighted. Everyone loved a mystery knight and all the intrigue such a character brought, and very few people even moderately liked Blount.

“This is frustrating”, Elia said, watching the unknown rider forego a victory lap in favour of approaching Ser Leslyn Haigh. “There is just something about him that makes me think I know this man.”

“How many northern boys do you know?”, he asked. Of course, the weirwood shield could be meant as a distraction, but misusing a symbol representing the old gods wasn't something many would dare, even in the south.

Elia squinted at him speaking to Ser Leslyn while Ser Jaeson grudgingly tied his horse where the mystery knight had first appeared . “None”, she said. “And why challenge these two of all people? I would think he was out for a horse and armour, but theirs would not fit.”

“There is a fair amount of gold to be gained from ransoming them back”, Rhaegar said. Ser Leslyn accepted the challenge. “Mayhaps a second son, looking to make a name for himself?”

“I somehow do not -” She interrupted herself when they saw Oberyn saunter onto the platform. It would be his turn later, but with this mystery knight, who knew how the schedule might change?

Oberyn stopped his walk towards them when Ser Leslyn and the unknown man began to charge at each other, leaning on the railing to watch. Ser Leslyn had done well the day before, and his courser was both heavier and faster than the other man's mount – and yet, he was struck at the shoulder with some force and fell, while his lance hit the weirwood-painted shield and shattered.

Cheers were coming from the commons, and some of the highborn as well. Ser Leslyn's squire hurried towards him from one side, while on the other, Rhaegar saw Brandon Stark laugh with young Benjen.

So much for that theory, then.

Oberyn sat down beside Elia, grinning widely. “A guessing game”, he said. “Very entertaining. And she is _good_, besides.”

Rhaegar's head spun around to him. “What did you just say?”

“Going deaf, Your Grace?” His good-brother put his feet up on the balustrade. “I said that it was very entertaining to guess at the identity of this valiant young lady.”

“Lady”, Elia repeated flatly, and Oberyn nodded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Certainly. Can you not see? I will bet my manhood on our mystery knight not having one.”

He watched the figure on the horse, reconsidering. The size certainly fit.

“But then -” Elia was shaking her head. “How many ladies in Westeros learn to joust?”

The rider was approaching another knight, seemingly still not satisfied. He – she? – seemed to be heading towards Ser Aenys Frey, who Rhaegar only knew of for having named his second son after himself, and the first after the king.

“Jousting mostly requires good horsemanship”, Rhaegar said, trying to unravel this riddle. A few northern maids were present at the tournament. “And which lady would not learn to ride? Though the sheer strength is what I find surprising.”

“Do you?” Oberyn was more smug than Rhaegar thought he ought to be. “I would never question your skill, dear good-brother of mine, but I do know that the Warrior has quite a lot to do with it.”

The mystery maid and Ser Aenys moved their horses into position. Reconsidering the weirwood-painted shield, Rhaegar decided that Oberyn could be right: why should he be the only one receiving godly aid on the lists?

Come to think of it, the trees at the ends of the tourney grounds were rustling quite a bit, though there was little wind – not unlike what he'd experienced that day in the Red Keep's godswood.

Trumpets sounded for the rider's third tilt, and as the opponents began their charge, Elia let her head fall back. “Of _course_”, she said.

Ser Aenys' lance didn't even touch the unknown rider as he was struck square against the chest.

“Do you know?”, Oberyn asked. The smallfolk were cheering more loudly than they had all day.

Elia had returned to a more courtly posture. “Yes, and so do the both of you. Who could it be but her?”

The way she said it made it clear. Rhaegar barely dared to say her name, but: “Lady Lyanna?”

Oberyn laughed. “I believe so”, Elia said. “That was why she appeared so familiar – and do you see her anywhere? She is not with the other northern ladies, nor with her brothers.”

That was true. Could it really be? Rhaegar watched her as she approached her vanquished opponents, apparently not intending to challenge another, and was thoroughly impressed – and intrigued. Just why would Lyanna Stark, or any other lady for that matter, put on armour and challenge three knights during a joust, seemingly at random?

Ser Jaeson had by now shed his armour and placed it with his horse, while Ser Leslyn was in that same process. “Good ser!”, Jaeson Blount called out, loud enough for most to hear. “You rode well, and I surrender my horse and armour as agreed.”

“As do I”, said Ser Aenys, who had made it off the floor. “How much do you require as a ransom?”

He could hardly imagine that Lady Lyanna, if it was indeed her, had done this to gain a purseful of dragons.

“Teach your squires honour”, the mystery knight replied in a strangely booming voice. “That shall be ransom enough.” The crowd roared.

Rhaegar looked at the Martells, questioning, and they seemed as clueless as he felt. “I suppose these men's squires have somehow offended her”, Oberyn said, stating the obvious.

“Your Graces!” Mace Tyrell, who so far had been watching the proceedings with a few of his bannermen, was now approaching. “What a wonderful mystery. The smallfolk are calling him the Knight of the Laughing Tree.”

“An apt name.” Oberyn still seemed highly entertained. “Speculation must run rampant.”

“Oh, of course, and many say – may I?” Lord Tyrell pointed at the chair next to Rhaegar's, and he gave him leave to sit. “Many say it must be a young northman, though I would agree that it could be one of the Blackwoods, as they aren't much for jousting in the North – but a great number of us would like to know for certain. Many a lord would love to take this man into his service.”

Rhaegar watched the figure as the three knights collected their squires. He could well believe that it was Lyanna Stark, and was by now fully convinced it was a woman – which meant that her identity would have to stay hidden. “Agreed”, he said. “Should this good man not decide to reveal himself, I will organise a search.” One that would be certain to come up empty.

The appearance of the Knight of the Laughing Tree had thrown the jousting schedule into complete disarray, with many participants intent on joining the search. The mysterious figure had disappeared as soon as the three knights had chastised their squires to her satisfaction.

Rhaegar had delayed the beginning of the search for as long as he plausibly could, then sent parties all across Harrenhal and beyond, but choosing to go to the godswood himself. Where else would she have gone?

So he rode out with Arthur, Oberyn, and his three former squires, and sent them in all directions except for the place he suspected her to be. Because if the Knight of the Laughing Tree was indeed Lyanna Stark, and if she hadn't lied to Elia about her relationship with the old gods, then he'd expect her to have gone to the heart tree.

Rhaegar rode towards the centre of the godswood, where the weirwood should be. Once he spotted its white branches through the other trees, he dismounted and approached on foot.

He'd been right. Before the enormous old weirwood with its pale bark and angry red face knelt a young woman, looking so small against the tree. She wasn't wearing the usual white gowns he was accustomed to seeing her in, but a doublet, boots, and breeches – likely her younger brother's, judging by the fine materials. Her hair was braided tightly against her head, its length wrapped around at the back and pinned into place. It did not look as if a single strand could have escaped from under the helmet she'd worn.

Rhaegar stood at the edge of the clearing before the tree, watching and feeling slightly guilty about it; he was clearly seeing something not meant for him. Lyanna was praying, one hand on the weirwood's roots and another at its mouth, glistening with sap. There was movement in the plants around them, everything from tree crowns to bushes to blades of glass moving by a wind that didn't seem to come from anywhere.

Suddenly, her head spun around and she stared straight at him. Lady Lyanna scrambled to her feet, giving a deep curtsey that looked strange without a gown. “Your Grace”, she said quickly. “I did not know -”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Rhaegar took a step forward, feeling rather sheepish. “I did not mean to intrude on your prayer.”

“It is nothing.” Now they both stood there, looking at each other. Her getup made it impossible for Rhaegar not to notice her figure; not unlike Elia's, as they were both rather small and slender women. Her doublet was grey, emphasising the steely colour of her eyes. He couldn't read their expression.

“You rode well”, he finally said, and she put on a show of very badly feigned surprise. “Your Grace?”

He inclined his head to the side, and she smiled very briefly. It was a pretty sight. “Was it that obvious?”

Rhaegar smirked, taking another step towards her while Lyanna turned to face the heart tree. “Not at all”, he said. “I do not suspect that many others know. Without my good-brother and my dear lady wife, I might not have realised at all.”

“That is good to hear.” Lyanna was watching the weirwood. “Are they looking for me?”

“They are looking for the Knight of the Laughing Tree, but none will come here. I have only sent my most trusted friends to the godswood.”

She looked to him once more. “Your Grace knew I would be here?”

“After what my lady said to Elia?” He got closer again, now only standing a few feet from her. “It was not difficult to guess.”

She opened her mouth as if to say something else, but closed it and turned back towards the weirwood. It really had a very angry face, and more scratches besides. “May I ask why?”, he said. “It really is somewhat unconventional for a lady to challenge knights on the lists.”

Her mouth twitched. “Is it? I am unfamiliar with southron knightly customs.” Lyanna shook her head. “Does Your Grace know Howland Reed?”

He'd heard that name, at least. “Reed of Greywater Watch?”

“The very same; Lord Reed's heir. I do not know if you know much of the crannogmen in the south, Your Grace; few in the North do – but they are small people, and do not fight as most others. The three squires were bullying Lord Howland.”

He blinked. “And thus, my lady decided to defend his honour on the lists?”

She put up her chin, defiant. “He is my father's bannerman.”

Rhaegar had to smile. That was a good enough reason, he supposed. There was much more that he wanted to know, too: Why had Lord Howland not done it himself? Or one of her brothers? Had the old gods given her strength?

Instead of asking, he was briefly dumbfounded by the way she looked at him, even if he still didn't know what it _meant_. Rhaegar cleared his throat. “I understand that my lady wished for Elia to come to the godswood. I hope it is not too much of a disappointment that I am here in her stead.”

“Not at all.” Lyanna seemed to hesitate. “There are only few weirwoods in the south”, she stated.

“That is true.” Rhaegar watched this one's large face. “Do they all look quite this wroth?”

“No. And they do not usually have additional markings.” With her sap-covered hand, she pointed towards the deep marks along the trunk, thirteen in number. They were clearly caused by the claws of an enormous beast.

“Vhagar and Caraxes”, Rhaegar said. “The Battle Above the God's Eye. An ugly reminder of a dark period in history.” He often wondered where they'd be without the Dance.

Lyanna hummed, looking down at her hand. The sap looked startlingly like blood, just as the smokeberry juice had. “Your Grace”, she said, “will have heard what I have told the Princess Elia. There are things that need to be known to some.” He saw her throat move as she swallowed, then suddenly looked at him pleadingly. “But I do not think they can be said.”

He was, at this point, absolutely certain that she knew. Nothing else would make any sense – the way she'd looked at him before, the things she'd said to Elia, and now this.

Rhaegar weighed his words carefully. “My Lady Lyanna”, he said, seeing her eyes widen as he called her by her name. “Have you ever heard of the prophecy of the prince who was promised?”

She seemed surprised. “No?”, she said, clearly not having expected this.

Rhaegar, too, was taken aback. Perhaps she _didn't_ know after all? But that couldn't be. Maybe she knew of the prophecy under a different name.

“The prince who was promised”, he said, “it a mythical hero prophesied to save mankind. Legends say that he will be born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star, and will bring the dawn – though I am not clear on -”

“The dawn”, she interrupted, her face lighting up. “The great war for the dawn that will end the coming Long Night; of course. Oh, by the gods, Your Grace.” She actually _laughed_, a sound full of relief. “For a moment, I thought we might not be speaking of the same thing.” Now, Lyanna was beaming, and Rhaegar was frantically putting the pieces together.

“The Long Night, you say? My lady, I have always known that the prince who was promised would have to deliver the world from darkness, but I still do not know what this entails. If you know _anything_ -”

She interrupted him again, and Rhaegar didn't even mind. “The Others”, Lyanna said without hesitation. “Creatures made of ice that bring death – and turn the dead into their servants; their army. It is not _mankind_ that needs to be saved; it is all the living. The Others rest in the Land of Always Winter beyond the Wall, and when they come – which they _will_ – then the new Long Night will descend upon us, and our only hope is -” She stopped. “The one you call the prince who was promised.”

That certainly answered many of the questions he'd had. “Is this common knowledge in the North?”

Lyanna shook her head, taking steps towards the weirwood, tracing her hands over its bark. “Legend”, she said. “I only know it to be true because the gods have told me so.”

They were coming so close. Rhaegar now knew that _she_ knew, at least about the prophecy, if in different terms. But did she know what it would mean for her? “The old gods”, he said, trying to unflinchingly look into the weirwood's hateful face, “must have told you this for a reason.”

“Yes”, she said. “They are not in the habit of conversing for the sake of it.” Lyanna ran her already-stained hand through the sap running down the tree's face – quite quickly, now, Rhaegar thought. “They have told me about the prince who was promised, even though they did not use this name”, she said, “because I will be his mother.”

She said it with complete certainty and was staring straight at Rhaegar, unbothered by her bloody hand. Her gaze was fierce and direct, as if daring him to contradict her.

He didn't intend to. “Of course.” He nodded, then needed a fair amount of willpower to make himself say: “Have they specified a father?”

Lyanna Stark _groaned_ and leaned her back against the tree, paying no mind to the sap that would inevitably stain her – well, Lord Benjen's – clothes, and her hair. “Do I really need to be the one to say it?”, she asked, looking at him with obvious frustration.

Despite the importance of the moment, Rhaegar found it in him to be amused at her insolence. Her demeanour had really changed quite a lot since the beginning of this conversation. “Please”, he said, looking at this strange woman in doublet and breeches who was quite possibly covered in blood, leaning there with no regard to etiquette and apparent annoyance on her face, hairdo coming undone against the bark and sticky sap, her eyes boring into him like iron.

If she was being frank, he could do the same. “If you say it and are wrong, Lady Lyanna, it could be embarrassing at worst”, he argued. “If I do, it could mean war.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Does that not just mean that we both _know_ what we cannot say, and that saying it is thus unnecessary?”

“Saying it would help avoid a misunderstanding.” He thought he sounded quite calm, though his heart was racing.

Lyanna didn't take her eyes off him. “My son would hardly be a _prince_ if his father was Robert Baratheon.”

That was close enough. Rhaegar took a few swift steps towards her until they were near enough to touch, saw her eyes go wide as she looked up at him. “Then we understand each other”, he said. “If the coming Long Night is to end, then you and I, Lyanna Stark”, it was still difficult to say out loud, “will need to have a son.”

She nodded, blushed, and tried to look down, settled on staring at his chest.

“We also both understand”, Rhaegar continued, “that this carries a number of problems, as you are betrothed.”

Her eyes met his. “And you are _wed_”, she said. “I wish no harm nor shame upon the Princess Elia, and do not care about my honour in this way if we consider just what is at stake -”

He placed his finger on her lips – they were far past propriety anyway. “I will not dishonour you.” Face red, she peered down at his finger, which he removed. “And Elia knows. She understands, and bears you no ill will. I will take you to wife, and eventually reign as a king with two queens. If you do not object, of course.”

Lyanna's lips parted briefly as she took this in. The enormity of the moment hadn't quite settled for him, either, and he suspected that she'd need some time. “I don't object. But – how?”

“That is the question.” Rhaegar took a step back, trying to sort through all that was in his head. “We must speak – about everything, and with Elia. Perhaps Oberyn as well; he is the only other person to know beside Ser Arthur. This is no place to plot.”

“It is not”, she agreed. “And if I am not mistaken, Your Grace is still meant to joust today. Against my brother.”

Seven hells, he'd forgotten about that. At least the sun, or the little part of it visible through the clouds, was high up; he still had time to prepare.

Rhaegar looked her over. “How is my lady planning on returning to the castle in this state?”

She just now seemed to notice not only her clothes in themselves, but also that her hands and entire back were covered in what looked like blood, her hair dishevelled and sticky. “Truth be told”, she said, “I do not know.”

He had to chuckle. “I will look for Oberyn; he should be somewhere in this godswood. My lady can expect him to come with a cloak and help her back.”

“That would be appreciated”, she said, curtseying once more. Rhaegar bowed slightly, and turned to find his horse under the trees.

“Prince Rhaegar”, she called out, and he turned back. It was the first time he'd heard her say his name.

“Bran is quick and strong, and he thinks that's all that matters. He has none of your technique. I cannot cheer for you loudly, but know that I will be glad upon your victory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In canon, many things have gone differently at this point. On a very minor note, Meera's story places the Knight of the Laughing Tree's appearance in the afternoon, not the morning – but really, whatever. Also, we don't actually know the first names of the three knights challenged. Since Aerys isn't there in this version of events, it also had to be the lords deciding that they wanted to find “him”*.
> 
> (* Not that it's actually confirmed it was Lyanna in canon, but like. Of course it was her.)


	19. Harrenhal, Day 6 - Elia

_The sixth day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Tourney of singers_

The joust was interrupted for a day, leaving time for a contest between singers out for money and employment. While the bards warmed themselves up all over the vast castle, the highborn had time to recuperate – and to concern themselves with the real reason for the whole event.

“Ah, children”, Hoster Tully sighed. They were standing on a relatively low bridge connecting two of Harrenhal's towers, watching a Valeman string his lute in a courtyard as a group of highborn boys looked on. “They are truly the greatest blessing the gods bestow upon us.”

“Indeed”, Elia replied, thinking of Rhaenys, and the son in her belly. The separation from her daughter hurt, but at least, she knew she was playing in the Water Gardens with her cousins, and there was no better place for any child to be. “I have never been more happy than when the maester placed my daughter in my arms.” Though she'd also been awfully exhausted.

Lord Tully pointed at the red-haired boy in the group, dressed in blue. “My little Edmure is truly enjoying this tourney. Such excitement for a boy of his age, and it greatly fuels his wish to be a knight. He has become an ardent admirer of your lord husband's.” He smiled. “He would not stop recounting just how the prince had knocked Lord Brandon off his horse yesterday, and that after I had spent so long convincing him that our lord of Stark is the strongest man in the realm. Edmure was quite anxious about our Catelyn leaving us for Winterfell, you see.”

“Of course.” The Valeman had begun to sing along to the lute, and she saw Edmure shush two other boys who would not stop talking. “I am sure the Lady Catelyn will do well in the North. I have heard many of your bannermen's daughters praise her.”

“She has her mother's sense – and the Whents have much of it. I am sure Your Grace would agree.” Elia had no doubt that Lord Hoster knew that Lord Whent was largely acting on Rhaegar's behalf. “I hope that Edmure will turn out the same”, he continued. “He is a diligent boy and learns quickly, so my hopes are high.”

There had to be a reason they were talking about his son. “How old is he?”, she asked. “Six?”

“He is.” Lord Tully looked at her directly. “I should like for him to become a page, in fact. Boys benefit from leaving their homes for a while.”

This was easy. “Of course, a boy of such noble birth should not just serve any knight”, Elia said. “As it happens, our dear prince finds himself in need of a page. I am sure he would be glad to take him on.”

Lord Hoster smiled. “What a marvellous coincidence. It would be a great honour.” The singer had a good voice, though he was somewhat lacking with the lute. “I am sure that as a mother, Your Grace understands my desire to see my children do well. That is why Catelyn is to marry Brandon Stark – and as you may know, I had considered a betrothal between my daughter Lysa and Jaime Lannister, before the king put an end to that possibility.”

“I did hear as much”, she said. Did he want a betrothal for Lysa? “Another expression of my good-father's unpredictable nature.” There was no need to advertise Rhaegar's involvement, after all.

“Yes.” Lord Hoster was tapping his fingers on the balustrade. “Of course, this now leaves me to try and find another suitable husband. Lord Frey has made an offer, naturally, but...” He gave her a meaningful glance.

“I understand.” A great lord would not want his daughter to birth children somewhere low on the Freys' incredibly long line of succession. “Who does my lord have in mind?” Better to be direct.

He turned to her and said: “Prince Viserys.”

Elia looked down to the courtyard, giving herself time to react. _Viserys_. Of course, he presently appeared to be Rhaegar's heir – if one continued the tradition of refusing women on the throne, and thus took Rhaenys out of the picture. Lord Hoster couldn't know that Elia was carrying a son, nor that Rhaegar would have another with Lyanna, nor that Elia had made him agree to put Rhaenys before this boy. Bar some unforeseen tragedy, Viserys was unlikely to ever sit the throne.

Which made Tully's proposal more reasonable than he likely realised. Except: “Forgive me, my lord”, she said, “but how old is the Lady Lysa?”

“Five-and-ten”, he said. “I am aware that she is ten years older than the prince. However, should they wed in, let us say, ten years – she would be five-and-twenty, and that is a good age to bear children. There would be plenty of time.”

He wasn't entirely wrong. “My lord would be willing to wait another ten years before seeing Lady Lysa wed?”

“For a royal engagement?” Lord Hoster shrugged. “Certainly. In fact, it would be best if she spent much of that time at court. I am sure Your Grace could always take on another lady-in-waiting.” Lord Hoster seemed to want to fill King's Landing with Tullys. “To be frank, I would consider this betrothal nothing but just. Your lord husband's own grandfather was meant to wed my aunt Celia, after all.”

“You demand much, my lord”, Elia replied. “Betrothing the only unwed male Targaryen to a woman ten years his senior – and even though your daughter is undoubtedly of high birth, she has no royal blood. Custom would certainly suggest that Prince Viserys should wed my daughter Rhaenys.”

“That custom seems to change with every Targaryen generation.” He gestured down towards little Edmure, captivated by the singer. “And it is your royal husband who demands much. I would, of course, be equally satisfied with a betrothal between Edmure and the princess. They are closer in age.”

As if. Rhaenys would be second in line to the throne behind Elia's son, and she didn't see her ending up at Riverrun. “I appreciate your desire to join our Houses, my lord”, she said. “I can surely promise you that Lord Edmure will become my dear husband's page. As for the betrothal between your Lady Lysa and Prince Viserys, I will need to consult the prince, as you will understand.”

“Naturally.” He bowed his head ever-so-slightly. “I am aware that this would be entirely impossible if the king were to rule. Should His Grace the Prince agree to the betrothal, this would serve as proof that he is not tainted by his father's madness.”

“Lady Lysa and Viserys?”, Rhaegar asked, frowning. He had snuck into Elia's chambers, as they were awaiting a visitor who could easily be seen in her company, but not yet his. “That is a tall order.”

“It is either that, or Lord Edmure and Rhaenys.” She had a sip of ginger tea sweetened with honey, hoping to settle her permanently upset stomach. It had somewhat worked during her last pregnancy.

“Well, that is out of the question.” Rhaegar was pacing; a rare sight. “Lysa and Viserys it is, then. I do not truly see why not, considering what it would gain us. And taking Edmure on as a page is no issue.”

“Good.” Elia gave herself a moment to savour the sharp taste of her tea. “What about Lord Arryn? One would expect him to be in need of a wife – not that we have one to offer.” Jon Arryn was both childless, and had recently lost his second wife.

“He wants to be Hand of the King.” Rhaegar glanced out the window, and finally sat down on a chair. “I believe he has given up on having children, and Ser Elbert will succeed him.”

“Hand of the King”, Elia repeated. “Or, in reality, Hand of the Lord Regent. I have never heard a bad word about Lord Arryn as a ruler, at the very least.”

“Neither have I.” Rhaegar was looking down at his fingers. “He would also like a promise of assistance against the mountain clans. Apparently they are close to starving after this winter, and particularly aggressive.”

Elia raised her eyebrows. “They have struggled with them ever since the Andal invasion. I somewhat doubt that this will change now.”

“At the very least, we must be seen to try. As for the others...”

Their eyes met, and Rhaegar looked away. In truth, they had no idea as to how they should treat with either the Starks or Lord Baratheon.

Ser Arthur's knock on the door interrupted their silence. “The Lady Lyanna”, he announced.

Rhaegar jumped out of his seat, too quickly for Elia's liking. As he wasn't officially present, it was she who opened the door. “My lady of Stark!”, she said loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might wander the halls. “I am so glad you could come. Everyone else seems to want to watch the singers, but what do I need them for if I am wed to the best of them all? Please do come in.”

Perhaps she was laying it on a bit thick, but it was difficult to put on an act in this situation. Lyanna followed her inside the too-large room, all blushing pale cheeks and a gown as white as if it were Maiden's Day – not that northerners would celebrate it.

When she spotted Rhaegar, Lyanna's blush intensified. She curtsied while he bowed, and the look they exchanged made Elia's stomach churn.

Seven hells. The situation would have been more bearable if there was nothing but prophecy-imposed duty between the two, but it was plain that this wouldn't be the case. Elia had thought that she could live with him being wed to another woman – but if he _loved_ or at least wanted her, too, it would be all the more difficult.

Lyanna curtseyed before her, as well, and quite deeply at that. “Your Grace”, she said in a thin voice, eyes full of uncertainty, “I – I do not have the words, but please know that -” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “I never intended -”

Elia felt the sliver of resentment she'd held melt away. Lady Lyanna was undoubtedly sincere.

She stepped forward and took the other woman's hands, cold and much paler than her own. “I know”, she said. “It is not your fault, my lady, nor anyone else's.” Lyanna still looked uncertain. “We shall be as sisters”, Elia said. “Like Rhaenys and Visenya.”

At that, a tentative smile crossed Lyanna's face. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Elia briefly considered offering her to drop the formalities altogether, but decided against it. This could wait until after the wedding, whenever and however this was to take place.

Lyanna's hands still in her own, she turned to Rhaegar, who was looking at them with something approximating wonder. Then, the door opened without a knock, and Oberyn hurried inside, accompanied by Jon Connington.

The latter looked at Lyanna in surprise. “My lady?” He had not been told yet.

With a sigh, Elia let go and pointed to the chairs around her table. “Please, everyone, sit. We all have a lot of talking to do.”

That, they did. Rhaegar began, summarising his years-long study of the prophecy, or perhaps prophecies, to bring Lyanna up to speed. When he and Elia recounted what they had seen in the Red Keep's godswood and in the dragonglass, Lord Connington paled, putting the pieces together. Then, Lyanna told them of her experiences during the preceding years – embarrassed as she recounted the ritual she'd undergone at her first flowering, though Rhaegar at least seemed to barely notice that detail while he wrote down what she'd seen in her visions. She told them about all that she'd been able to learn about the Others, the idea of which was surely the most terrifying concept Elia had ever encountered. When they heard about the stag Lyanna had opened before the heart tree, Oberyn was visibly impressed.

“This is madness”, Lord Jon said when she had finished, his elbows on the table and face in his hands. “_Utter_ folly. You mean to not only take a second wife, which is already going to meet an enormous amount of resistance, but it must also be _Robert Baratheon's betrothed_? Rhaegar.”

“I knew you would say that, but what is there to do?” The men stared at each other across the table, the conversation clearly a matter between the two of them alone. “You heard it all. We are all _very_ well aware that this will be extremely difficult, but there is no choice.”

“A _second wife_. The Faith will be against you along with half the lords of the realm!” Connington shook his head, and for the first time, Elia felt a measure of real sympathy for him. She had never quite experienced that same jealousy, until now. “The High Septon will brand you as Maegor the Cruel long before you can return to King's Landing, and the lords who support your father will immediately latch onto it. By the time you return – _if_ you return, that is; if none of the Starks nor Robert Baratheon kill you – the city gates will be closed to you, and Viserys your father's heir.”

“None of my brothers would kill him”, Lyanna said, glaring at Lord Jon. “They wouldn't dare to lay hand on him.”

“And why is that, my lady? How could they not?”

“Because I would not allow it.” She appeared entirely convinced, and Oberyn chuckled. “To be fair”, he said, “Elia's intervention is the only reason I have not killed our good prince.”

Rhaegar looked at him with more annoyance than anything else, then returned his attention to Connington. “You are right that the Faith will need to be dealt with, but I do not intend to return to King's Landing without the support of a large part of the realm. The High Septon will change his tune quickly enough if presented with no other choice.” Lord Jon leaned back in his chair, and Rhaegar continued. “I understand your reservations, but I must ask you to support me in this nonetheless. Will you stand by me?”

Jon Connington sighed heavily. “To my grave, Rhaegar. And most likely still after, no matter which hell I find myself in.”

“Touching”, Oberyn murmured, and all heads spun around to him with accusing looks. “I meant it!”, he said. “It is good that we have all established that we are on the same side in this. Of course, this leaves the problem of _how_ we could do it.”

“Please do not suggest poison”, Rhaegar said.

Now, it was Oberyn's turn to be annoyed. “I had not planned to, but now that you say it -”

“We cannot _kill_ Lord Robert”, Lyanna cut in. “Besides, my hand would only pass to his brother.”

“My lady”, Elia said, “do you believe that it would be in any way possible to convince your family? After what they saw with the stag...”

“Perhaps.” Lyanna looked thoughtful. “Ned – Eddard, that is – loves Lord Robert as his brother, and will always argue for him. But it is Brandon who would need to be convinced to bring the matter to our parents. If only my lady mother were here, I know that she at least would support me.”

“Surely, the prospect of my lady becoming queen one day would be a greater one than Lady of Storm's End”, Connington remarked, and Lyanna nodded. “Of course. However – even if we could convince them that I would truly be a queen and not a mistress, _and_ that it is the gods' will, the idea of breaking a promise such as a betrothal would sicken my lord father.”

“But you believe it to be possible?” If they could get the Starks to publicly agree to the wedding, their situation would improve immeasurably – and with a rift between them and Lord Baratheon, the great alliance would break.

“I am not sure”, Lyanna admitted. “I have never told any of them the full extent of my visions. I never thought they would believe me.”

“Could the Others not come into it?”, asked Oberyn. “If anyone would not consider them a legend, it would surely be your family, my lady.”

“And what have they asked?” Connington was looking at Elia. “For their support for Rhaegar's sole regency, that is.”

Elia immediately liked that line of thinking, but Lyanna shook her head. “They would consider it dishonourable to break the betrothal for greater concessions from the throne. The Others and the prophecy _could_ be an argument – if, and only if, the gods decided to confirm this to my parents.”

“Would not even the Night's Watch be useful?”, Elia asked. “As a – well, as an argument. Lord Brandon has let Rhaegar know that your lord father would appreciate a temporary lifting of port duties for White Harbour, increasing food shipments in case winter should return”, as apparently, the northerners thought this a false spring, “and that we should do everything within our power to strengthen the Watch.”

Lyanna looked at her with unexpectedly hard eyes. “The Watch cannot be a bargaining chip”, she said. “It _must_ be strengthened either way. They will be our first line of defence when the Others return.”

Elia was about to explain that they could merely _pretend_ that any aid to the Watch was dependent on the marriage, but then realised that this could hardly work if they based their entire argument on the Others.

“What if”, Rhaegar said quite suddenly, immediately silencing all other retorts. “What if the final decision does not have to lie with Lord Stark?”

“How would that work?”, Elia asked. “Could it be possible to dissuade Lord Baratheon?”

She considered that an idea worth exploring, though Lyanna was shaking her head.

“Perhaps not”, said Rhaegar. “But can we not leave the decision to the gods? A trial by combat, so to speak.”

“So to speak”, Lord Jon repeated. “What does that mean?”

Impatient, Rhaegar waved his hand. “It means a duel for Lady Lyanna's hand. Surely, it would be easier for Lord Stark to agree to this, and Lord Baratheon does not seem the type to refuse such a challenge.”

All fell silent. “What if you lose?” Elia could hardly contemplate the thought.

To her relief, Rhaegar shrugged. “We will find another way. I do not intend to make it a duel to the death. First blood should suffice.”

Multiple breaths were exhaled. Lady Lyanna was eyeing him curiously. “Lord Robert is very good”, she said, “and such a duel is no joust. I do not mean to question Your Grace's abilities -”

In a reaction that utterly surprised all who'd known Rhaegar for more than a few days, he _laughed_. It was not a smile, nor a chuckle, but an actual laugh, if not a long one. Elia did not know what to make of it.

“Do not worry, my lady”, he said. “I fully intend to draw on all the support the gods are willing to offer. Beyond that – Lord Robert may be good, but so am I.”

As there actually was a tournament of singers taking place at the same time – easy enough to forget, with everything else happening – Elia left her chambers with Lady Lyanna at her side. A future queen had to show her face, after all.

_Two future queens_, she reminded herself.

Their walk began quite awkwardly. “Your Grace”, Lyanna said, voice low and serious, “I know I have already said this, but -”

Elia silenced her with a gesture. “Do not speak of this in the corridor, my lady. The walls have ears, even with Ser Arthur behind us.” At least he knew.

Lyanna bowed her head. “Forgive me.”

They crossed one entire hallway in an uncomfortable silence. “I have attempted to get to know you in the past days, my lady”, Elia said finally, “for reasons that are now clear, but of course we have not had much time. I should like to change that.” Feelings of jealousy aside, there was no use in enmity and resentment between them. She hooked her arm under Lyanna's. “Do you like to listen to singers?”

“I think they are wonderful”, she replied, looking to Elia with a cautious smile. “We hardly get any such entertainment in Winterfell. The way is too long and the population too sparse for many singers or mummers to visit us, and with the past winter, we haven't had any in years.”

The North sounded miserable. “That is such a pity. Of course, you will experience something very different once you are wed and in the south.”

Lyanna sighed wistfully. They were approaching the courtyard where the contest was held, and could hear an applauding crowd as a singer had finished his tune. “I am looking forward to that”, she said, “and to seeing new places. But even if the North might not sound like much to Your Grace, I must say that I will miss my home.”

“I have heard it described as beautiful.” She thought of how foreign it sounded to her: vast, snowy plains and deep dark forests instead of deserts, beaches, and sun-kissed orchards.

“Oh, it is”, Lyanna replied. “Large, wild, majestic. It might seem strange to those from the south, but as a Stark, my blood ties me to this land.”

This was something Elia could understand. After all, not many outsiders thought much of Dorne, either. “We will visit”, she said quietly, squeezing Lyanna's arm.

Then they stepped out into the courtyard, where she was sure their joint appearance was duly noted.

All the better. Once this all came out, the realm had to know that her fellow wife had Elia's approval.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Littlefinger challenging Brandon for Catelyn's hand in canon indicates that such a thing is actually possible in Westeros, while Oberyn's duel against Lord Yronwood was fought to first blood.
> 
> It's funny how some things are the same in this period as they were during the time the actual books are set. Jon Arryn was already pretty old in the 280s (probably around 60), and so was Walder Frey (over 70). Walder also already has a sizeable amount of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I think next to general distaste, that's actually a pretty good reason why other lords would refuse their daughters marrying into the Frey clan: at some point, it just becomes incredibly unlikely that either her husband or her children will ever inherit anything. 
> 
> No idea if Celia Tully was Hoster's aunt, great-aunt, cousin, or anything like that.


	20. Harrenhal, Day 7 - Lyanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update before Christmas. Enjoy the holidays, everyone!

_The seventh day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Third day of the joust; mummer's show_

Waiting in front of the weirwood early in the morning, Lyanna had some time to reflect.

So much had happened in the last two days. After years upon years of worry, she now knew that the prince had known all along: that he had not thought her insane, that he hadn't been offended, but that the gods had let him know before she'd had to. A tremendous relief.

And then, there was something else. Even long before they'd met, some of the dreams she'd had of him had gone far beyond the borders of decency – but when he'd stood so close to her here in this very place, she'd realised with more than a little embarrassment that she _wanted_ him in a way entirely unfamiliar to her thus far. Which would be a great way to feel about her future husband, if it wasn't for the fact that he already had a loving wife.

Even that she would _be_ his wife had come as somewhat of a surprise, him calling her a queen in some visions notwithstanding. He'd been completely clear about it. Then, she'd expected Princess Elia to hate her; she'd have every right and reason to. Instead, she'd welcomed Lyanna with a kindness that was more humbling than anything else she'd ever experienced. How could she ever hope to match her, to pay her back for the warmth she'd already shown her?

Rhaenys and Visenya, she'd said. Together with Aegon, they'd formed the three heads of the dragon Rhaegar believed he had to replicate – and if it was to be so, then all the better. Perhaps fate would be kind to them.

Shamefully, Lyanna also remembered what Ned had told her about the princess: He'd warned her in so many words that Elia was more cunning and experienced than herself, and that she'd best be on her guard. He'd spoken of a different matter, but the thought lingered on her mind.

Her musings were interrupted when Lord Howland stepped into the clearing, dressed like a crannogman again after he'd been able to mend his own clothing. It had been his magic and prayer that had given her the strength to defeat those knights, and his advice that had prompted her to wait before this tree afterwards, where he'd said she'd meet the prince.

After a greeting, Lyanna recounted the events of the past two days.

“Good”, he said then. “All is set in motion.”

He had such an easy confidence in their success. “Will my family agree?”, she asked.

“That, I do not know.” He studied the tree's furious face. “But they are godly people. Let us pray and give sacrifice, my lady, so we may give the gods the power to help us.”

He spread his cloak upon the ground so that Lyanna could kneel without dirtying her gown. She detached her left sleeve and put it aside, then rolled up the sleeve of her shift to expose her lower arm. Lyanna placed both hands on the weirwood's face, and Lord Howland began to chant in a low tone so different from his usual voice.

She did not entirely understand the words he said, for he was speaking the Old Tongue, and with the accent of the crannogmen besides; influenced by the language of the children of the forest. She could make out that he spoke of a wolf pack when he raised his own dragonglass dagger to draw her blood.

A thin stream flowed down her arm towards the tree's face. Lord Howland, chanting about a royal dragon and a boy, caught drops of it in his left hand, and then buried that hand deep into the dirt next to the roots. The earth here was too dense for him to do that, she thought, then felt the ground shake beneath her.

Lyanna felt as if drawn _into_ the tree, her hands cramping around the thick bark. She fell forward, was sucked into the weirwood's eyes and spat out on the other side, where her mother and father sat by the pond in the godswood of Winterfell. Lord Rickard was polishing Ice and Lady Lyarra sorting through herbs to be dried. _Please, gods, oh please they must see._ _They _must. _Once they are asked, there is only one answer they can give, lest what you ask me to do can never be done._

A great heat came over her, beginning just where she would hurt most when she bled every month and spreading into her fingertips, her toes, the top of her scalp. Her whole body tingling, Lyanna's eyes ripped open and stared at Harrenhal's weirwood, saw Lord Howland's bloody dagger plunged into its mouth. But its face was also the gentler one at Winterfell, and those of a thousand other trees.

Her head was filled with Howland Reed's song, the sounds barely describable as words. _See_, the gods' voice said. _Show._

_What?_ It was so difficult to form a coherent thought with that tingling heat within her, and the song that drowned out all. _How could I show them anything? They're not here._

_You are there_. Lyanna forced herself to see the face of Winterfell's heart tree. _Show_.

In her mind though not her body, she turned around to where her parents sat. Lyanna raised her hand, wanting to somehow catch their attention, and saw it was frozen blue, black blood slowly oozing out of the cut on her arm.

Just like Lord Howland, she pushed it into the ground. A great vein of ice spread out from her and towards the pond, reaching the water and freezing it within an instant.

Mother and Father scrambled to their feet, him raising Ice as if there was an enemy nearby. She could not hear what they said to one another; not with that song so loudly in her ears.

Lord Rickard saw the vein of ice, stepped in front of Lady Lyarra with his sword drawn. He walked towards her, clearly unable to spot Lyanna, though he could make out where it began; just at the heart tree.

At something Mother said, he turned around, and Lyanna could see her point towards the pond. After a glance at the tree's face, Father stepped back. Lyanna watched both her parents look into the frozen water. She could not see their expressions, but watched Mother stumble and him catch her by the waist, drawing her close.

The heat within her was becoming unbearable. With a look at her hand in the ground, she saw it lose its frozen colour, blood turning red and running fast into the earth.

Lyanna flexed her fingers, and the vein of ice shattered. Then, all went dark.

When she came to, she was sitting and leaning against Harrenhal's weirwood.

“You have a leaf in your hair, my lady”, Lord Howland said, presently spreading a salve on the cut in her arm. He had already cleaned up, it seemed.

Lyanna felt tired. “I do not know if that worked”, she admitted, reaching to the back of her head and pulling out an old leaf. It wasn't from the weirwood.

“It did.” He let go of her arm and closed the container he'd used for the salve, while the cut began to itch. “I was there. They saw.”

“How were you there?” Lyanna shook her head and pushed down the sleeve of her shift, looking for the one from her gown and finding it dirtier than she'd like. “You were here.”

“So were you.” He shrugged. “Here, there – it does not truly matter when one is speaking to the gods.”

Lyanna looked at her hands, which were neither blue nor dirty. “Thank you, my lord”, she said. “None of this would have happened without you.”

He helped her to her feet. “The gods would have sent someone else. I must thank you for restoring my honour against those squires.”

“Oh, please.” She struggled to reattach her sleeve. “It was my duty as a Stark.”

“As a Stark?”, he asked, “Or as my future queen?”

“Oh.” Lyanna froze. “By the gods. I would be queen.”

“Where _were_ you?”, Bran hissed when she joined her brothers on their seats. “You said you were having breakfast in your room.”

“I was praying.” She hadn't come a moment too soon, as trumpets now heralded the beginning of today's jousts. The field had narrowed considerably, and the matches would be increasingly difficult.

“What for?” Bran was very obviously cross with her. “You keep disappearing, Lya. Are you spending all that time with the princess? What is _happening_?”

He was being too loud, and Ned warned him with a look. Lyanna bent towards both of them, Ben straining to hear from her other side. “You will find out soon enough”, she whispered. “We have a meeting with the princess during the mummer's show.”

The first tilt began: Ser Arthur Dayne against Robert Baratheon. Lyanna was surprised that her betrothed had made it this far.

Bran was looking at her with anger. “Find out what? What have you _done_?”

She gave him a look that could have frozen over a lake, though it was somewhat less effective against him. “You'll have to wait.”

Ser Arthur unhorsed Lord Robert with almost offensive ease, and Lyanna clapped, even though that would likely just increase Bran's ire _and_ annoy Ned. “The Sword of the Morning”, Ben said next to her, not sharing the others' anger. “I bet you he will win the whole tournament.”

Lyanna looked down the lists, where Prince Rhaegar was readying himself to go up against Yohn Royce. “I would not be so sure.”

As always, Bran couldn't stay angry with Lyanna for too long. By the time they'd watched the morning's jousts and had taken their luncheon, he was as cordial as ever, although Ned still appeared even more quiet than he'd usually be.

“I would quite like to see the mummers”, Ben said just as they'd finished eating. “They are showing a Braavosi play. _The Conqueror's Two Wives_.”

Lyanna blinked. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? It's a play about Rhaenys and Visenya.”

She wanted to laugh, but couldn't. Was this a coincidence, or were either Rhaegar or Princess Elia just being very on the nose?

No matter. “Well, you will miss it”, she said. “We must go see the princess.”

With that, the mood grew tense once more. “Save your anger at me”, she told Bran. “You will need it when you hear what this is about.”

They would meet in Elia's chambers once more. The entire way there, Bran had lectured her that she couldn't just throw him into such a meeting unprepared, that she should tell them all _right here and now_ what was going on, and also, that he might as well refuse to attend entirely and Ned and Ben should come with him to the mummer's show and see a more entertaining folly.

Lyanna said that if he'd rather see the mummers than hear what she had to say, she should perhaps tell Lord Tully that he wasn't ready for marriage yet, as he was clearly still a boy. That had, at the very least, forced him to follow her after all – even though the scene they'd created was quite unfortunate.

She supposed that secrecy wouldn't be necessary for much longer.

When they were let in by Ser Arthur and Ser Barristan, they were the last to arrive. Elia and Rhaegar already sat at the round table, as did Prince Oberyn – and Lord Baratheon. Ser Arthur followed them inside, standing in the background.

Lyanna sat between Ben and the princess, feeling sick. She dreaded this more than she had anything else in her life.

An expectant silence filled the room while Elia distributed cups of wine to all but herself. Nervous, Lyanna took a sip, and discovered with surprise that it wasn't nearly as sickly sweet as the rest. Dornish, she supposed.

“My lords”, Rhaegar said finally, sitting up perfectly straight between Elia and Prince Oberyn. “I thank you for coming. We will now speak to you of something that will undoubtedly cause great outrage, but I must ask you to keep your calm. A decision made in anger is never a wise one.”

Already, she could see suspicions forming in the other men's heads. Ned in particular was easy to read – he looked towards Robert, then Lyanna, then Rhaegar, and his eyes went wide. Slightly shaking his head, his eyes wandered to the Martells, and his panic was replaced by a confused frown.

At least for a moment, he must have thought that the prince had dishonoured her.

It was Elia who spoke next. She looked as regal as her husband, dressed in orange silk and cloth-of-gold, a golden tiara with sunbeams on her brow. Speaking with perfect calm and confidence, she told Lyanna's brothers as well as Lord Robert all of their combined knowledge of the prophecy, and how they'd acquired it.

She hadn't yet said anything about their conclusions regarding Lyanna's son, and had left out the details of how they'd come to speak to each other.

“It is true”, Ben said into the silence that filled the room after Elia's account. Surprised, Lyanna turned to him, as did everyone else. “I have seen it too”, he said. “That the Others will return. Every time I pray, the gods show me the dead at the Wall.” He looked straight at Bran. “That is why I will join the Watch.”

Bran raised his eyebrows. “Think that through carefully, and then speak to our lord father.”

Lyanna had had her suspicions about his interest in the Watch before, of course. She could see her parents granting his wish – he wouldn't be the first Stark at the Wall, and as a third son, it made a fair amount of sense.

“Very well”, said Lord Robert, sitting across from Lyanna between Prince Oberyn and Ned. “So these – Others may return, you believe.” He shrugged. “The Lady Lyanna has spoken to Their Graces. Where is the outrage?”

That was a difficult part. Lyanna took a deep breath and braced herself. “There is a reason”, she said slowly, staring at her hands around the wine cup, “that the gods have shown these things to both me and the Their Graces. You have by now heard about the prince who was promised, and why we believe that he will be Prince Rhaegar's son.”

General confusion still prevailed. “Then we are lucky that the princess is with child, I suppose”, Lord Robert said. “I still do not understand -”

“It will not be this child”, Elia interrupted. “Even though he is a boy. We know this. We have seen it. And if I were to have a third, I would die. But beyond that fact, it cannot be my child at all; it never could.”

Silence followed. It was Ned's face again that began to show dawning comprehension. “The prince who was promised has a song”, said Rhaegar, repeating the detail Elia had already mentioned. “The song of ice and fire. Tell me, my lords, who would this child's parents be?”

This was what brought it across. Ned paled, then put his head in his hands, Bran began uttering curses, Ben covered his mouth with his hand. There was a small smile on Prince Oberyn's lips, and Lyanna couldn't help but think that he somewhat enjoyed what was sure to follow.

After a moment of looking at her brothers, Lord Robert, too, began to understand. They all knew just when he had, because he rose up from his chair so abruptly that it fell behind him, and his face contorted into a mask of rage as he leaned over the table towards Rhaegar. “_You. _You -” It was obvious he was working very hard to restrain himself. “Your _Grace_”, he spat. “If you value your life, _prince_, then look me in the eyes and swear that my betrothed is still a maid.”

Even though she could've guessed that this accusation would be made, Lyanna was quite offended to have her virtue questioned in this way. She was about to tell Lord Robert just that when she felt Princess Elia's hand on her sleeve, warning her. In the back, she could see Ser Arthur touching the hilt of his sword across his shoulder.

Rhaegar was composed as he looked into Robert's face. “I have never touched the lady”, he said (which wasn't technically true, as the memory of his finger on her lips told Lyanna), “and my lord would do well not to doubt her in this way.”

Lyanna nodded to that, and heard a collective sigh of relief come from her brothers. “Please _sit_, my lord”, Rhaegar said in an iron tone. “I will forgive your threat against my royal person just this once.”

Visibly confused, Lord Robert picked up his seat and sat back down. Ser Arthur's hand moved away from Dawn, though not by much.

Bran was quite clearly attempting to put all the pieces together. Ben and Ned, sitting on either side of him, were hanging on to his every word. “Thus – you are telling us, Your Graces and dear sweet sister”, he said that bit through gritted teeth, “that the prince and Lyanna need to have a child. Is that it? I do think we all ought to have some clarification that this is exactly what you are saying.”

He sat right across from Rhaegar and was staring at him, while Lyanna saw how his fingers were white from being clenched around his pewter cup. She nervously eyed Ser Arthur and said: “Yes.”

Bran's gaze moved to her. “Yes. Just that? _Yes_? Because it is so simple?”

If one looked closely, one could see that his hands were beginning to make dents in his cup. “It is what the gods demand”, she said, voice as calm as she could keep it.

“To all seven hells with your gods!” Lord Robert's cup flew from the table in a long bow, hitting the wall with a _clat_ and leaving a trail of spilt wine in its wake. He was standing again, and Ser Arthur had half drawn his sword by that time, now facing Lyanna. “You are my betrothed, not some prince's whore.”

Before anyone else could react, Bran, too, was standing. “Guard you tongue, my lord”, he growled.

“Indeed.” Rhaegar, still sitting, appeared as calm as ever, even though there was an edge to his voice. “The lady is a highborn maid, and will never be a”, he seemed to hesitate to even say it, “whore.”

“I don't give a damn what you call it”, Robert said, turning to Rhaegar again. Ser Arthur took two very loud steps towards the table, which was at least noticed by Lyanna's brothers. “A mistress, a _paramour_”, he looked to both Martells with a sneer, “it makes no matter. The lady is promised to me, and she will wed me and bear my children. No other man's.”

“No”, Lyanna said, fed up at being talked about as if she wasn't there. “I will not, my lord.” She thought he looked hurt, and she rose as well, though much more deliberately. “It has nothing to do with you”, she said as gently as she could. “I am sure we could have had happiness.” Perhaps. “But there is no way around it: I can never be your wife, though I am certain that every other maid in the realm would love to take my place.”

“Lya.” Bran's large shoulders rose and fell visibly as he forced himself to take heavy breaths. “This cannot be. You _are_ betrothed, and a Stark could never be a”, she could swear his eye twitched, “mistress.”

“Oh, seven hells.” Prince Oberyn had spoken for the first time. “Has anyone _said_ anything about Lady Lyanna being a paramour? Do you believe that the prince who was promised could be a bastard? That would make it quite difficult for him to be a _prince._”

This was confusing enough to temporarily calm Bran's and Lord Robert's rage. _“Gods”_, Ben groaned from next to her. “Then how? I do not understand any of this.”

“Prince Oberyn speaks true.” Rhaegar got to his feet as well, very slowly. “I never intended to make the lady my mistress. I intend to take her to wife.”

She wouldn't have been surprised if Lord Robert's head had now exploded, so red was his face. Bran only wordlessly pointed at Elia.

The princess cleared her throat. “His Grace would not be the first of his House to take two wives.”

For a heartbeat, Lyanna thought that Bran might laugh. Lord Robert had turned around and was taking several steps from the table, waving Ser Arthur away with a careless gesture.

“You cannot be serious”, Bran said. Ned was looking back and forth between her and Lord Robert. “Two wives, that is -”

He was interrupted by the sound of Lord Robert picking up an armchair and throwing it to the ground, the wood shattering. He grabbed a broken chair leg, the edges frayed, and turned to them with a loud huff. “_Two wives_. Father Above, who do you think you _are_?” He glared at Rhaegar and took a step towards him. “Which septon would wed you?”

“A septon is hardly needed”, Lyanna remarked, but it was as if he hadn't heard her. “You are just like your mad father”, Robert said. “Hungry for power, for women -” He began to stride towards the prince, and stopped hard when he suddenly had Dawn at his throat.

“Step back, my lord”, Ser Arthur said calmly. Lyanna had barely seen him move.

“Or what?” Lord Robert looked at the knight with defiance in his eyes. “You will cut me down?”

“Yes.” Considering their position, it was clear that he could.

“And then?” Robert glanced at the sword, so strangely pale. “Do you think you'd get to the others before they can touch your precious prince?”

“With ease.”

The expressions on her brothers' faces left no doubt that they believed him. “Rob”, Ned said. “Step back. And let go of that chair leg; it won't do you any good.”

After a few very tense moments, Lord Robert did just that, and Ser Arthur put down his sword.

“This cannot happen”, Robert told Bran. “She is betrothed to me. This was agreed upon years ago.”

Bran nodded. “It was.”

“I understand that this puts House Stark in a very difficult position”, Rhaegar said. “That is why I will not force you to choose. Instead, I challenge you, Lord Robert Baratheon”, he nodded at her still-betrothed, “to a duel for the Lady Lyanna's hand. First blood.”

Robert spat. “Too much of a coward to risk your life?”

“I am aware that either of our deaths would cause a war”, Rhaegar replied impassively. “Further, I would require Lord Stark's blessing for this – he does not need to endorse my marriage to the lady in itself, but merely agree that the winner shall have her hand.”

Bran's eyes narrowed. “Why? I am sure that Lord Baratheon would do the honourable thing and leave her be if he lost.”

“Because I want it”, Lyanna said, leaving out a fact they were likely all aware of: that her father's blessing for the duel would mean he'd consent to the marriage if Rhaegar won, and thus, take Rhaegar's side against Lord Robert's. “I could never wed against Mother's and Father's wishes. Write to them, Bran.”

“And why would they agree?”, he asked. Ned was watching them with narrowed eyes, likely still seeking to truly understand it all, while Ben appeared quite lost.

“For so many reasons”, she replied. “But most importantly of all: because they will pray, and the gods will show them the truth.”

“Do not forget, my lord”, Rhaegar cut in, “that I intend on making your sister queen, once the time comes.”

“I -” Bran took a deep breath. “I cannot see how the gods would allow this. _Two_ wives. Would you truly be a wife, Lya?”

“What else would I be?”, she asked back, facing him. “If we are wed before a heart tree, then I am his wife. Some of the First Men would take more than one; forbidding it is a custom the Andals brought.”

“You cannot seriously consider allowing this”, Lord Robert fumed, walking up to Bran.

He faced him, expression stern. “I cannot allow it at all; no more than I can forbid it. This is for my lord father to decide, but it is surely my duty to inform him. I will send a raven posthaste.”

Lyanna wanted to run around the table and embrace him, but she supposed that it would be inappropriate.

“Your Grace.” Lord Robert had said this with no hatred in his voice, but that was likely because he was addressing Princess Elia. “I do not understand how you could sit by and let this happen.”

“Why not?”, she asked. “I am not being put aside. My children will not be robbed of their rights. Why should I object? I have always wanted a sister.”

“Is this true?”, Bran asked. “Would Dorne not resent Lyanna?”

This was why Prince Oberyn's presence was so important. “Dorne has no reason to”, he said. “My beloved sister carries the prince's son; his heir. The Lady Lyanna could not possibly have an older child.”

Lord Robert spat onto the ground again. “This is godless”, he said. “And, yes, an outrage. The prince does not surprise me, but I would have never taken the Starks for oathbreakers.”

Quite suddenly, Bran stood right before him. “I did tell you to guard your tongue.” They were both of equal height though Bran was broader; two very large men with long dark hair and beards. “If my lord questions my House's honour one more time, the prince won't have anyone to duel against.”

“I have beaten you before”, Robert said, which was almost true. “And I could again. But for the sake of my _betrothed_, I will not harm you.”

“Do you believe you could beat _him_?” Bran pointed at Rhaegar, and Lord Robert gave a snort. “I know I can.” He turned. “I accept your challenge, _prince_.”

Despite the awfully tense situation and the knowledge that Bran would likely rage at her for days at least, Lyanna felt relieved. So far, this was all working the way they had planned, and no blood had been spilled.

“But you, Ned”, Lord Robert went on, “I would have expected more from you. I always considered you as more of a brother than those I have by blood, and yet, you will not speak for me.”

Ned looked up at him from his seat, seeming tired. “What would you have me do? It is not my decision to make.”

“Be a bloody man. Defend your sister's honour.”

Ned's gaze turned cold, and Lyanna realised with a twinge of guilt that their friendship would not survive this. “There is only one man here who has doubted her honour, and it was you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The First Men and polygamy: Some kings from before the Andal invasion had multiple wives, though it's not clear if this was at all common. That doesn't really matter, though, as long as Brandon buys the argument. 
> 
> “Dorne has no reason to resent Lyanna”: I mean. I'm sure some Dornish lords will see this differently. This, too, is meant as an argument Team Rhaegar uses to convince the Starks; nothing else.


	21. Harrenhal, Day 8 - Rhaegar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little pre-chapter reminder: Robert's hammer is meant to look like [this](http://www.valyriansteel.com/shop/swords/king-roberts-warhammer/prod_14.html), or at least that's the official replica. It this a weapon a normal human being would be able to wield for any serious amount of time? I doubt it; it looks incredibly heavy. But, you know, fantasy and all that. I don't think that Dawn and the other six-foot swords are much better.

_The eighth day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Fourth day of the joust_

By the next morning, all of Harrenhal knew.

As Richard – quite offended at not having been let in on the secret before – had told Rhaegar, Lord Baratheon had spent most of the night drinking and telling everyone who'd listen just what had happened, though he insisted that Lady Lyanna had no wish to wed Rhaegar at all and was merely misled.

The prince wasn't entirely sure either: She was, of course, doing this because it was the gods' demand. But if she would, in her heart, rather wed Lord Robert, then he was subjecting her to a rather cruel fate.

It was made worse by his knowledge that he, himself, very much wanted Lyanna Stark; that he'd had the unbidden wish to kiss her when she'd stood up to Robert. During the night, he'd held Elia as close as he could, only somewhat comforted by the knowledge that he loved and desired her, and wordlessly praying for her forgiveness.

Despite everything else, there was still a tourney to fight. At Elia's advice, he had Richard, Miles, and Jon running around and telling a different version of the events of the night before; one in which Lyanna was not nearly as taken by Lord Robert as his story had claimed. While this was taking place, Rhaegar readied himself for the joust.

Just as he had finished being strapped into his armour, Ser Barristan opened the flap of his tent, and Brandon Stark entered. He gave his squires their leave.

“Your Grace”, he said. “A raven has returned from Winterfell.”

Rhaegar froze. “Already? That is impossible.”

“That is exactly what Lord Baratheon said.” Lord Brandon watched him fasten the last straps. “Lyanna claims it was the gods' work, and I suppose she is right. Despite Lord Robert's accusations of forgery, I am able to recognise my lord father's own hand.”

He grabbed his dragon-adorned black helmet. “And what is his verdict?”

“He agrees.” Rhaegar nodded, satisfied. “Lord Robert insists that the duel take place this afternoon, when the jousting is done. Further, in case he wins, he wants an immediate wedding. From the duel straight to the sept.”

“I could have guessed.” He put his helmet in place, but opened the visor, and could see Lord Brandon's look of concern.

“Prince. Between you and me -” He sighed. “Lord Robert is an excellent fighter, and I am sure he is expecting you to be exhausted after the joust. On the other hand, he is not in the greatest of shapes after last night.”

Rhaegar tried to read his face. Was Brandon rooting for him? As if he could sense the question, he went on: “I do not care who Lya weds”, he said. “I care about her happiness, and about avoiding bloodshed. My lord father wrote that the gods have shown him the truth, and if this is what they want, then so be it. But, truly: Lord Baratheon is very good with that hammer of his, and it is not a weapon meant to draw blood.”

That was true. In fact, the hammer would be far more likely to crush his skull.

“I appreciate your concern, my lord”, Rhaegar said sincerely, making towards the open tent flap. “I have seen him fight in the melee.” And none of them had ever seen _him_ in anything but a joust. “Do not forget, however, that I was trained by the White Bull and Barristan the Bold; that most of my practice duels have been fought against the Sword of the Morning. And if even all of that does not prove to be enough”, he turned to his squires and his horse, “the gods are on my side.”

In the joust, they certainly were. Rhaegar defeated Ser Oswell, and thus the first knight of the Kingsguard left the competition. He went up against Oberyn as well, as they had in a number of tourneys before – and even his friend's sand steed didn't give him an edge as Rhaegar's lance knocked him down.

He rode against others, too, and bested all with ease, even though his thoughts kept turning towards everything else. To sit in the audience on this day had to be thrilling; less so because of the joust, but because of all the things they must have heard. A high-level scandal was unfolding before all of their eyes, and by now, it was clear that the duel would have to take place in full public view.

Still, the applause for him remained loud, which was reassuring. He noted that Elia, Oberyn, and Lyanna made a point of cheering him on, while her brothers (somewhat unsurprisingly) followed the joust without giving an indication of their preference. Lord Baratheon was absent.

As he shed his armour afterwards, another unexpected visitor came to his tent. “Howland of House Reed”, Ser Barristan announced, sounding rather confused.

A small man entered the tent, wearing unusual clothing. He had chestnut hair and piercing green eyes, and carried something flat and round in a leather bag.

He bowed.

“Lord Howland.” Once again, Rhaegar shooed away his squires. The new ones were nothing like Richard and Miles. “The Lady Lyanna has told me about you. I thank you for your help.”

“There is nothing to thank me for.” Confidently, the man walked over to a small table and opened the bag. From it, he pulled a wooden shield and placed it on the table.

“I have prayed for your victory in this duel, Your Grace”, Lord Howland said as Rhaegar walked over to him, still wearing most of his armour. “Our gods are on your side.”

The shield was round, not like what Rhaegar would use in the joust. Its front was painted white, with a large red weirwood leaf in the middle, the paint glistening strangely.

“This seems familiar”, Rhaegar said with a smile.

Lord Howland nodded. “Until yesterday, there was a laughing tree upon it. I have spent most of the last day and night painting and consecrating it again. The red is weirwood sap.” He turned to Rhaegar. “You must use this shield in the duel, Your Grace. It may not be what you are accustomed to, but it is blessed by the gods, and might save the outcome of this fight – or even your life.”

As if he would refuse a gift from any gods. “I know you do not want my thanks, but you have it, my lord.”

Lord Howland bowed again, and swiftly departed. The moment he left the tent, Oberyn and Elia entered, looking after him curiously.

Rhaegar pointed at the shield. “The old gods offer their assistance.”

“Good.” Elia stood in the middle of the tent, examining him critically. “You are exhausted.”

“Not for much longer”, he promised, while Oberyn helped him shed his breastplate. “Have you brought everything?”

“Of course.” His wife swiftly got to work: She scattered dried pine sap in the brazier, unrolled his rug with with seven-pointed star, lit red candles. They stripped him down onto his breeches, and Rhaegar joined her in the centre of the star.

Elia was wearing a blood red gown and dark iron jewellery, large rubies tied into her thick braid. Se held an iron cup in one hand and a dagger in another.

Behind them, Oberyn rang a bell.

“Mighty Warrior”, she intoned. “Guardian of the Faithful, Knight of Knights, Sword of Victory. Before You stands Rhaegar of the House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Your son in all but blood.” The cup was already filled with ground dried petals of bloodblooms and dragon's breath, crushed ram's horn and bone from a falcon, as well as red pigment. “On this day, he will face a mighty opponent so he may win the hand of the woman he must wed.”

She handed the cup to Rhaegar to free up her hand, and brought the dagger close to her skin. “I, his wife, Elia of the House Nymeros Martell, ask You oh Warrior to grant him victory in this fight.” She made a small cut on her palm, no trace of pain on her face. “Make him find the valour within him”, she said while her blood dripped into the cup. Rhaegar focused on her words; on the feeling that would overcome him whenever he charged during the joust or fought on the practice grounds – excitement, and no trace of fear. “Make him fight at his own full strength.” Paying no mind to her wound, she took the cup from Rhaegar and placed his hand in her palm, drawing his blood. He thought of the feeling of his sword in his hand; the easy practiced strokes. “Make him best Robert of the House Baratheon; the stag lord.” Their blood mixed in the cup.

“For a stag is nothing but prey”, she announced, swirling her fingers through the mixture. Rhaegar could see a flash in her eyes and knew she was a priestess in this moment; more connected to the Warrior than any of the clergy could ever hope to be. “And a dragon the supreme predator.”

With her fingers, Elia used the mixture to draw the sigil of the Warrior on Rhaegar's chest. Her hands left burning traces where they went, and when the drawing was completed, she switched into High Valyrian as he turned around. “The blood of the dragon does not falter, does not weaken, does not know defeat.” She painted his personal sigil, a variation on his House's, and two lines along his shoulder blades. “It triumphs.”

Rhaegar closed his eyes. He felt as if wings were about to erupt from his shoulders, and claws out of his feet.

As all present seemed to know about it anyway, the duel was held on the jousting lists, the barrier quickly cleared away while the opponents had been preparing.

Everyone was there, the spectacle effectively having become part of the tourney. Rhaegar noticed a large number of singers among the smallfolk, surely ready to compose ballads in honour of whoever would emerge victorious.

Instead of the raised platform, better adapted to watching proceedings on horseback, the seats of the most highborn had been transferred to the ground. All were in their places, exempting of course himself and Lord Baratheon. Jon Connington and Rhaegar's former squires were not far away, and neither were the three knights of the Kingsguard.

Robert stood in the middle of the cleared area, an impressive figure in dark armour with gilded accents, though the sun shone too weakly for them to glimmer. Rhaegar was no short man by any measure, but Robert's antler helm made him seem colossal. The prince himself had traded his elaborate tourney helmet for something more plain; unadorned in black, the three-headed ruby dragon on his breastplate impressive enough.

The herald had been informed. “Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone”, he cried out, “has challenged Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End to a duel for the hand of the fair Lady Lyanna of House Stark.” A murmur in the audience as the rumours they'd heard were thus confirmed. “It is noted that the maid's father, Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, has given his consent. Whichever of her suitors prevails shall have his blessing for the marriage.” Rhaegar suspected that it had been Lord Brandon who had spoken to the herald, and was grateful for the inclusion of this detail. “The duel will be fought to first blood. The first man to cause an injury in his opponent, however minor, shall be considered the winner.”

Lord Baratheon turned to his squire, as did Rhaegar. He received his sword; the one his father had given him as a wedding gift. Lord Robert took his warhammer.

“Halt!”, shouted Jon Connington, quickly striding into the centre. He pointed at Robert accusingly. “This is a duel to first blood. My lords and ladies, I think it is obvious that this weapon is not meant for such a fight. Lord Whent, as the host of this great tournament, I suggest you demand that Lord Baratheon use a sword.”

Clearly, some in the audience agreed, while others didn't. Both Elia and Lyanna were visibly worried.

Rhaegar wasn't. “Lord Connington!”, he called out, and Jon's head spun around to him. “I greatly appreciate your concern for my person. However, Lord Baratheon may use whichever weapon he wishes. I am sure he will respect the rules agreed upon.”

Perhaps he was sabotaging himself. Robert wasn't known as a swordsman, and if he had forced him to use a blade, this could have been an easy fight. Then again, many would know this, and see it the same way.

Jon walked towards him. “Rhaegar, I beg you”, he said quietly, eyes pleading. “If he kills you...” There was plain fear on his face. “All would be lost. And so would I.”

Rhaegar put his armoured hand on Jon's shoulder. “Do not fear, old friend.” He raised his weirwood-painted shield, strapped to his arm so he could use his left hand if needed. “I have a whole set of gods to help me.”

With a pained look, Jon wandered off. The herald raised his voice again. “The lady of Stark may now present one of the suitors with her favour.”

It would have been wise of her to refuse the opportunity, Rhaegar thought. Instead, Lyanna stood, a white velvet band in her hands. He was sure the entire audience was holding their breaths to see which way she would go.

A sigh went through the crowd as she approached him. The question of who she truly wanted to wed had been answered to them, and he could only hope that not too many suspected that her honour had already been compromised.

He raised his right arm so she could tie the band on his elbow. “I see Lord Howland has paid Your Grace a visit.”

“It was much appreciated.” He watched her tie a knot, and then another. And another. Lyanna looked him in the eyes.

“If you lose”, she said, “I will feign hysteria. I will scream and kick and bite anyone who dares touch me so they cannot drag me into the sept, and once the opportunity comes, I will run away. You will find me on the Isle of Faces.”

Rhaegar smiled and made to answer, but she continued. “If you die, I do not know if I could do the same. Perhaps I would die as well. I could not wed the man who killed you.”

Temporarily speechless, Rhaegar was left to stare at her. “My lady...”

“Do not die”, she said, and turned to leave.

Lord Robert dealt the first blow.

Rhaegar caught it on his shield, where not even the paint chipped. Robert didn't have one, his weapon requiring both hands.

He knocked Robert's hammer up to the left, forcing both arms up, and aimed for the gap in the armour under his right arm. His sword was too short, and Robert out of harm's way.

The hammer came again, this time from the right. Rhaegar evaded it entirely, and noted that even at a swing with this much power, Robert had full control of the weapon. The man was stronger than almost anyone in the realm.

Rhaegar danced around him, his shield between the hammer and himself when he got to Robert's side. He held it up and thrust down behind Robert's knee, but was evaded again. The impact on his shield came exactly when and where expected.

He kept testing Lord Robert, though his opponent was likely doing the same. As all of his teachers had told him: it was important to know what one was up against.

In this case, it was someone with enormous strength, decent speed, and a wider reach than himself.

Blow came after blow, and Rhaegar was on the defensive. The repeated impact on his shield began to tire his arm, his sword couldn't get anywhere past Robert's armour, and the viciousness of the attack made it clear that the other man was absolutely trying to kill him.

It was this thought that turned the tide. Rhaegar felt the drawings on his skin burn and gave a roar, swatting the hammer to the side. He narrowly missed the space under Robert's helmet, stabbed at him again and almost hit his armpit.

This man was trying to kill _him_; his prince and his kin. How dare he? _A stag is nothing but prey._

He ducked under the warhammer, caught it by the hilt in his left hand, got back up and yanked at it. Robert didn't let go, but was thrown off balance; stumbling forward. Rhaegar released the weapon before it could be used against him – and grabbed Robert by the antlers.

He pulled the helmet off, threw it far behind them. Robert regained his standing, still wearing his coif. His face was bare.

He saw Robert narrow his eyes, furious and well-aware of his weakened position.

Rhaegar felt as one with his shield and sword while he attacked. His ears were filled with a strange war-like song, his skin was on fire, his eyes those of a hunter about to make a kill. Robert took a far swing over his right shoulder, and there was the opening.

Protecting his left with the shield, Rhaegar surged forward, making a quick slash at Robert's face and immediately kicking him to regain distance.

Robert stumbled backwards, blinked and squinted down. A thin red line formed on his cheek. _And a dragon the supreme predator_.

Robert charged.

Rhaegar was overwhelmed. The first blow he barely dodged, the second he only just parried.

The third, he was powerless against. Rhaegar could see the warhammer's spike coming straight at his chest – right where the rubies formed the three-headed dragon.

Then, he was astonished to see it stuck in his shield. He had not been aware of moving it.

Robert was just as surprised. Full of rage and dimly aware of white flashes moving at the corners of his eyes, Rhaegar yanked his shield away with such force Robert lost grip of his weapon. Rhaegar kicked his hip, his opponent was spun around, and the prince stabbed at the back of his knee; felt the chainmail give and flesh being pierced.

Lord Robert screamed, tumbled to the ground. The next moment, the Kingsguard were upon them.

With blurring vision, Rhaegar saw Robert on his knees, Ser Barristan holding his head up by his hair. Arthur was holding Dawn high, ready to strike off his head. Ser Oswell stood by, having picked up the warhammer, his gaze challenging anyone to interfere.

Others were quickly catching up. Jon was first, immediately followed by Elia and Oberyn, then Lyanna with Brandon and Eddard.

Rhaegar felt very tired, had to lean on his bloody sword. It was difficult to take a deep breath with all that gods-damned armour on him.

“He tried to kill him!”, Jon shouted. “Lord Baratheon tried to kill His Grace after he'd already been cut. We all saw it.”

“Take his head!”, someone screamed from the audience. Rhaegar thought it came from the smallfolk's viewing stands.

Then, Elia was at his side, looking up with worry on her face. She slightly shook her head. He nodded towards his shield, which she unstrapped.

“Baratheon”, Oberyn said loudly, “plainly never meant to merely wound the prince.”

Shouts of agreement were audible from all around. “Traitor!”, it came from the commons.

“Your Grace!” Panting, Eddard Stark stumbled into the middle of the circle that had formed. “Your Grace, I beg you. We can see the cut on Lord Baratheon's face.” He pointed at the man, watching the proceedings with empty eyes. “It is obvious Your Grace had already won, but the wound is rather small. In the heat of the fight, Lord Baratheon would not have noticed.”

“A lie!”, Jon replied. “It is clear as day what happened here.”

Rhaegar struggled out of his helmet, fitting much more snuggly than Robert's had. He could now, if he so chose, have him executed. Only few would dispute the grounds.

“Connington”, Lord Robert rasped. Blood was beginning to pool under his legs. “I am your liege.”

Jon's face was full of loathing. “He is my prince.”

Rhaegar looked towards Elia, whose expression made clear that she thought Robert should be spared, then to Lyanna. She, too, was shaking her head, eyes pleading.

He pushed back his coif, revealing his hair. It felt stiff and sticky with sweat, and he was _so hot_ under his armour.

Then he straightened himself, and raised his voice with the last strength left in him. “Let it be known”, Rhaegar called out, “that Lord Baratheon, mighty warrior that he is, was unaware of the small scratch I had placed upon his cheek. Only a more grievous injury was noticed. Is that not so, my lord?”

Robert's eyes gleamed with hatred, as if a little bit of gratitude at being spared couldn't be expected. “That is so”, he said.

The audience erupted in either disappointment or relief, depending on the person. Ser Barristan let go of him, and Arthur sheathed Dawn. “A maester for his lordship!”, Rhaegar demanded. The amount of blood under Lord Robert was beginning to grow concerning.

“Oh, my dear lady!” Elia was beaming, striding over to Lyanna as quickly as dignity allowed. Before the eyes of all, she embraced her and kissed both cheeks. “I shall be so glad to have you as my sister.”

Oh, of course. Only now did Rhaegar realise that he hadn't just survived this fight, but had also won Lyanna's hand.

Lord Brandon appeared before him, clasped his hand around Rhaegar's outstretched arm. “Well fought”, he said curtly.

He nodded at him, then walked over to the women. Gods, he was tired.

With Elia's arm hooked under hers, he took Lyanna's hand into his gauntleted one. Cheers erupted when he kissed it.


	22. Harrenhal, Day 9 - Elia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year/decade! Is there anything more terrifying than time?

_The ninth day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Fifth day of the joust_

Robert Baratheon left Harrenhal in a wheelhouse.

Some said it had been meant for Lyanna, so as to ensure her comfort on the journey to Storm's End. Elia didn't know if this was true, but it was plain that Lord Baratheon was in no state to ride. His left leg was badly injured; something torn under his knee. She'd heard it said that he would be forever crippled.

They were watching him and a few of his men leave the gate from up in a tower. It was the early morning, before most of the castle would wake and be able to witness his departure. Without a doubt, the maesters had recommended to him to remain until he regained his strength, but he'd found the shame too difficult to bear.

“He needs to die”, Oberyn said very quietly. “I do not understand why you dissuaded Rhaegar from having him killed then and there. He will hate him forever, and you as well.”

Thinking back at the moment when she'd seen Robert's hammer stuck in Rhaegar's shield so close to his chest, she shuddered. When he'd knelt on the ground before them, she'd wanted nothing more than to take Dawn off Ser Arthur and end him herself. “I agree.” There was no doubt in Elia's mind that Baratheon would never cease to want Rhaegar dead – and that he had sealed his own fate when he'd tried to kill him the first time. “But he must die in a way that is not obviously connected to us.”

“A shame the Kingswood is so safe these days”, Oberyn mused. “An attack on the road could have been arranged, and blamed on the Brotherhood.”

“We will find a way”, she said. “Perhaps you will finally have an opportunity to use poison.”

These dark considerations aside, it was a day of triumph.

“I must thank you, my lords and my ladies”, Lord Arryn proclaimed in the Hunter's Hall, “for allowing me to speak for this Great Council.” The title was a bit of an overstatement, she supposed, considering the small number of lords whose opinion had actually mattered. “We have all agreed that the king is no longer fit to reign. Six days ago, I stood in this same spot and proposed a council of regents to support the Prince of Dragonstone until it was time for him to take the throne. Since then, many of us have had the opportunity to speak to His Grace and the Princess Elia, and to assess His Grace's character, motives, and abilities.” By which he meant: to extort concessions. “It is my great pleasure to announce that despite our earlier reservations, we are now all convinced that His Grace has no need for such assistance. As such, I, Jon of the House Arryn, speak for the Vale and all my bannermen as well as for the Houses Stark, Tully, Tyrell, and Nymeros Martell as well as their own bannermen when I proclaim Prince Rhaegar Targaryen the Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

As much as it felt like a coronation, it would have been inappropriate for anyone to shout the usual well-wishes_. Long may he reign_, Elia thought to herself instead, allowing herself to briefly indulge in the idea of his already being king. Either way, he'd sit the Iron Throne soon enough, and that was a highly appealing image in her mind.

She did feel somewhat like a queen as she looked out over those assembled, now including near every highborn attendee of the tourney, as well as a number of maesters, most of the singers, and several scribes. The time for secrecy was over.

Rhaegar nodded solemnly. “I thank you, wise lords and ladies of the realm, for the trust you place in me. I intend to prove myself worthy. As my first act as Lord Regent, I hereby relieve Lord Owen Merryweather of his duties as Hand of the King.” There was hardly anyone surprised. Elia wondered just when Merryweather would hear of his fortune. “In his stead, I would ask you, Lord Arryn, to serve as Hand. I have heard much about your diligence and wisdom.”

Jon Arryn bowed. “You do me a great honour, Your Grace. I gladly accept.”

Applause rang out. This was all well and good, Elia thought, but couldn't quite enjoy it the way she would've liked to. After all, they weren't in the Red Keep, and until they were, they were arguably forming a renegade parallel government.

“Further”, Rhaegar said, “it is important to consider what the future may bring. I have a daughter, though not yet a son.” He wasn't about to tell them all that they knew the sex of his future children. “It is my utmost duty to consider the future of my House and, thus, the realm. I hereby happily announce the betrothal between my brother, Prince Viserys, and the Lady Lysa of House Tully.”

This got the nobles whispering. Elia was glad that Viserys was too young for Aerys to wed him to anyone else before they arrived at the capital.

Further, the age difference was well-known to the lords and ladies, and Elia was slightly concerned that the Tyrells would see this as an affront – after all, when King Jaehaerys had broken his betrothal to Celia Tully in order to wed his sister Shaera, she herself had been promised to Luthor Tyrell; Mace's father.

However, the Tyrells had not been part of the great alliance, and had thus been in less of a position of power as compared to Lord Tully. Perhaps the possibility of a betrothal between Rhaenys and one of their sons could serve as an enticing prospect for the future. And it was not like they hadn't been considered at all.

“The Reach”, Rhaegar went on, “is well-known for its prosperity. It is my belief that this is due to the wise stewardship exhibited by Lord Tyrell.” Someone sniggered, and it was clear to all that this was more flattery than truth. No matter. “As such, I would like to ask his lordship to serve as master of coin in Lord Chelsted's stead.”

They were, in fact, appointing the Lady Alerie and thus securing the Hightowers as well. In Dorne, Elia thought, they would not have needed to go through her husband for this purpose.

Lord Tyrell accepted with a somewhat long, blustering speech. These appointments were not the only thing the lords had won in their negotiations, though the rest did not need to be announced as loudly: Once King's Landing was secured, royal assistance would be added to an offensive against the mountain clans in the Vale; Edmure Tully would travel south to serve as Rhaegar's page; and the North would receive a handsome shipment of food and supplies, as well as a two-year lifting of all port duties in White Harbor in order to incentivise trade.

“Further changes will be made to the small council once we have reached the Red Keep”, Rhaegar said, then moved to the most controversial topic of all. “Now. All present are aware of my betrothal to Lady Lyanna Stark.” Many a head turned to her, who sat in the front row along with her brothers. “We will wed on the morrow in the godswood of this great castle, and all are invited to bear witness.” It had to be done soon, though Elia was still somewhat astonished at the speed with which everything was happening.

“No king nor prince of this realm has taken more than one wife for more than two-hundred years. It is important for me to clarify that this was not a decision taken lightly. The Princess Elia”, he took her hand and held it in a gesture that was usually too personal for court, “is all I would ever want in a wife and future queen.” Elia had to smile in a way that she would not normally show in public, but in this moment, a genuine display of their affection was both natural and necessary. Somewhere in the audience, a young girl sighed wistfully.

“My decision to wed the Lady Lyanna”, Rhaegar went on, “was not made out of the wish to take a second wife. It was not a demand by House Stark. It is not an affront to the gods, though that is a discussion I will reserve for the High Septon.” A few chuckled; clearly those who did not need to feign piety. “It is not a matter of the heart.” He still held her hand. “My lords and ladies, a great threat is coming, though we still have time to prepare. I cannot presently give much detail. In the coming moons and years, as we learn more, you will all be informed of the nature of this threat, and of what needs to be done. For now, I must ask for your patience and cooperation.”

This left near everyone sceptical and confused, but there wasn't much to be done about it. She hadn't been sure if he should have mentioned it at all, but Rhaegar had maintained that to begin speaking of it now would ease their later preparations.

“Ravens will be sent to Casterly Rock, Pyke, and Storm's End, asking their lords to join us in King's Landing and proclaim their support for this regency”, he continued. “But for now, there is still a last day of jousting.”

While Rhaegar was preparing himself, the great lords' dais served as a good place to plot. By now, everyone sat there was their ally.

And so, they could plan the journey to King's Landing. They needed at least one representative of each House to join them, as this would serve as proof of Rhaegar's legitimacy as regent. The Lords Arryn and Tyrell quickly proclaimed that they would come themselves. Lord Tully had other plans; insisting that Brandon Stark's wedding to his elder daughter take place as soon as possible. He and Elia agreed that Lord Edmure and Lady Lysa should only travel to the capital once it was secured, as the situation could be quite dangerous. Instead, he would send his brother; Ser Brynden the Blackfish, who would be able to quickly ride out and meet them on the road.

With Lord Brandon busy going to Riverrun to be wed, Eddard would be representing the Starks. This somewhat worried Elia, his friendship with Robert Baratheon being no secret, and she could only count on Lyanna assuring his cooperation.

For the past two days, she'd been concerned that the breaking of the Stark-Baratheon betrothal might have caused them to lose the Arryns and Tullys as well. Lord Stark's blessing had helped, however – and so had the fact that it hadn't been Rhaegar who'd acted dishonourably in the duel. Even more, though, there was a very simple logic underlying their continued support: Rhaegar was a way to depose the king.

There were only four riders left in the joust. Ser Barristan defeated his opponent, making him advance to the final round, and then it was time for Rhaegar to go up against Ser Arthur.

Great cheers rang out for both, and it was the first time the herald introduced Rhaegar as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm. The commons took this in confused, but enthusiastically enough.

“He should better win this”, Oberyn said. “It would be somewhat disappointing if he did not.”

“It would not matter too much”, she said, then held her breath when both riders charged, and both lances broke to no effect. “Do you see all those singers over there?”

“They are difficult to miss.” Rhaegar and Ser Arthur got back into position. “Some of them were quite good.”

“Good or bad, they have their purpose.” Trumpets sounded, both men rode, neither fell. Elia lowered her voice. “I am paying all of them.”

Oberyn laughed. “When did you find time to recruit a small army of singers?”

“There is always time for what is necessary.” Just like there had been time for her to write to Doran; preparing their journey back south. “After this is all done, most of them will ride out into all corners of the realm, telling the people all about how the just and honourable Prince of Dragonstone will take the reins in the kingdom to rid us of his mad father.” Both riders received new lances. “And, of course, about the duel in which our valiant prince fought with honour and won, even though the wicked Lord Baratheon attempted to slay him. The reasons for Rhaegar sparing him differ somewhat between the singers, but they are all good enough.”

The third tilt began, and swiftly ended in Ser Arthur landing on the ground. Both Elia and Oberyn cheered loudly, as did near everyone attending.

“I can imagine the duel serving as material for many a song”, Oberyn said.

Rhaegar helped Ser Arthur off the ground, and both men hugged, which had to be rather awkward in full armour. “I have heard many variations already. Some tend to describe the fight itself, others focus on Lyanna's reaction – one claimed she spent it all weeping, so great her fear of being wed to Lord Baratheon. A few praise the sisterly bond between her and me. I have taken care to forbid any insinuation that I oppose their marriage.”

Oberyn hummed. Rhaegar and Ser Arthur amicably walked towards one end of the lists, while Ser Barristan was readying himself on the other. “I imagine it is not easy.”

She knew what he meant. “You are right. I have never quite experienced jealousy such as this, and I do not care for it. It is not nearly the same as some other girl making eyes at him in the Red Keep. He would always pretend not to notice those.”

Her brother was silent for a while as both watched Rhaegar mount his steed once more. “When we discussed your betrothal, I told him that if he ever mistreated you, I would -”

“I know”, she interrupted. “You shouted about it at some length when we told you about the plan. But he is not mistreating me, is he? We all know this needs to happen.”

When the herald announced the last round, he took quite a long time to build up the audience's excitement, praising the skills of both opponents. Ser Barristan's impressive record both in tourneys and on the battlefield was exclaimed, and by comparison, Rhaegar appeared as the less likely winner – even though it was mentioned that he had “soundly beaten Lord Robert Baratheon in a duel”, as if anyone present didn't remember.

“Still”, Oberyn said. “It pains me to see you unhappy.”

She sighed. “I am not. This is a period of adjustment.”

Rhaegar and Ser Barristan charged at each other, and neither lance even touched the opponent.

“You believe you will come to be used to it? The jealousy?”

“I was rather hoping that it would go away. Of course, the idea of him bedding her tomorrow – it was quite difficult to even say these words just now. It makes me sick.”

The second tilt proved as inconclusive as the first.

“I am sorry. Perhaps you should take a lover.”

She had to laugh. “I do not want one. Have you _seen_ my husband?”

Rhaegar and Ser Barristan faced up again. Both were hit, but remained ahorse.

“Then we can only hope the jealousy will truly fade. I will not lie to you, Elia: I cannot imagine that he will leave her bed once she is with child. I have seen the way they look at each other, and it makes me sick as well.”

Another tilt. Rhaegar was hit and Ser Barristan wasn't, but the prince seemed barely affected.

“I know he will not; no more than he has left mine.” A pause. “I can only hope it remains that way.”

“I think I have a solution.”

“What is it?”

“Take _her_ as your lover.”

Somehow, even the following tilt brought no result. Elia felt herself getting tired of the spectacle.

“I do not wish to, and I doubt she feels any differently.”

“A shame. It would be how I would resolve this.”

Rhaegar and Ser Barristan rode again.

“By the gods, do you think _they_ will resolve anything? All they have to do is knock each other off their horses. They have both done it hundreds of times before.”

“I think that might be the problem. They are both very skilled.”

Elia wanted to groan, but princesses didn't do that in public, so she settled for a more subtle eye-roll. “It is no use”, she said. “I will feel how I feel, and all there is to be done is to hope that the feeling changes, and to not let it influence my actions until it does. If this jousting ever ends, that is.”

Both riders positioned themselves. The trumpet sounded, and two of Westeros' greatest knights charged at each other with the skill and grace of thousands of hours of practice. Lances were lowered, clashed into steel. Rhaegar was hit on the shoulder, Ser Barristan on the chest.

Both retained their balance. “Do you ever think about what Mother would make of you now?”, Oberyn asked.

“I think back on all she has taught us. Do you?”

He chuckled. “We both know that she would think of me the same now as she did when she still lived: too wild, too impatient, _far_ too unmarried -” Elia made to interrupt him, but he waved her away, and his smile made clear that he knew Mother had thought of him much more highly than that. “You, on the other hand?”, he asked. “I think she would be proud of you most of all.”

Yet another tilt was about to begin. “Thank you”, Elia said sincerely, then took her hand and pressed down on the cut she'd made during the ritual the day before. _Mighty Warrior, grant him the strength to -_

She didn't get to finish her prayer. Rhaegar's lance struck true, Ser Barristan's did not, and Rhaegar won the joust.

“One more for the singers”, Oberyn said.

As the champion of the tourney, it was on Rhaegar to crown a queen of love and beauty.

They had previously discussed this possibility, and found a solution that should be satisfactory to all – as, given the circumstances, he could hardly crown either Elia or Lyanna alone. The crown, now surrendered by Celia Whent, was made of blue winter roses. They were bound only with thin wire.

Rhaegar rode up to her, head bare without a helmet so all could see the striking contrast between his pale hair and black armour. Elia waved to Lyanna towards her, and Oberyn supplied her with a dagger she could give to her husband.

As Lyanna walked past the Tullys and Whents on the platform, it became clear to many what they had in mind. It was truly the only solution that wouldn't show any favouritism.

Rhaegar took the dagger, and cut the crown in half. “You are blocking their view”, she told him very quietly.

He nodded, passed one half of the crown to each with some flourish, and guided his steed away by a few paces. Lyanna was blushing.

Elia smiled brightly as she took her half and placed it upon the other woman's head, carefully tucking the wires into her half-braided hair. They were of the same height, which meant that Lyanna had to give a small curtsey.

With so many people present, the murmurings this caused were audible. Now it was on Elia to slightly lower herself before Lyanna, letting her secure the other half in her golden hairnet.

She was quite sure that the cheers began at the viewing stands of the smallfolk, but they quickly spread to the highborn. Elia took Lyanna's hand and drew her close, waving with her free arm, which Lyanna quickly copied – though somewhat uncertainly.

“I suggest you get used to it, my lady”, Elia said, squeezing her hand in reassurance. “Tomorrow, you will become a princess.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't like using the word “government” in this, but the only alternative I could come up with was “administration”. I think both sound somewhat out of place.


	23. Harrenhal, Day 10 - Lyanna

_The tenth day of Lord Whent's great tournament_

_Wedding of His Grace the Prince of Dragonstone and Lady Lyanna of House Stark_

At her own wedding, Elia had told her, the breakfast had been large and elaborate, and most of it had consisted of receiving gifts from anyone attempting to ingratiate themselves to the future king and queen. In Lyanna's case, the hosts had only had a day and a half to make preparations, and nobody had known to bring a present.

This suited her well enough as she broke her fast in the Hunter's Hall with all the other highborn women. The Whents had of course been prepared for hosting all these people either way; the planned festivities closing the tournament would simply serve for the wedding instead.

“I am sure they will all remember their gifts later on, my lady”, Elia said from next to her at the high table, delicately holding a flaky pastry. “You may expect a torrent of jewellery. At my own wedding, I was surprised that this many rubies even existed.”

“And we will find _plenty_ more”, said Lady Alerie, having overheard the princess' comments. “Red is somewhat obligatory for a Targaryen bride, I fear. I am sure the Lady Lyanna will look wonderful in it.”

She tried to imagine herself in one of Elia's red gowns. The Martell orange and yellow would look terrible on herself, of course, but red? “I fear it might make me look pale”, she confessed.

“Oh, I doubt it. Unless you use yellow gold. In fact -” Elia stopped and reached around her neck, opening her necklace; white gold filigree holding together rubies and shimmering black pearls. “Allow me?”

Lyanna lifted up her hair, letting Elia fasten the necklace. It was lighter than she'd thought.

“Lovely”, Lady Alerie opined, and Elia smiled in satisfaction. “My wedding gift to you, my Lady Lyanna.”

She gave her thanks, thinking that if the princess continued being this generous, the guilt may very well consume her.

There was plenty of time before the actual ceremony, which would only take place at dusk. Lyanna had a long bath and thought for the first time since she'd left Winterfell that she truly missed her mother – who else to speak to on a day such as this? They wouldn't even be able to send letters, considering that they would leave Harrenhal the next day. In fact, she wasn't even sure if her parents already knew about the outcome of the duel.

At least Ned would journey south with them, even if their paths were to diverge soon. The day before, they'd had a long conversation in the godswood – he was feeling terrible about close to everything. Bitterly disappointed in Robert for his dishonourable conduct during the fight, angry at himself for not having seen this in him any sooner, and, absurdly, ashamed at having lied in order to save his friend's skin. If he was still his friend at all, that was: Ned told her that he'd gone to see him just before he'd left, and he didn't believe that anything could be mended between them.

She'd seen Ben, too. He was glad about the outcome, and not only because he knew it had been what she'd wanted. Her other two brothers believed her when she spoke of the Others, but Ben _knew_. He wasn't even overly concerned with the prince who was promised – he was just relieved that she'd be at Rhaegar's side, and would be able to influence him to build up the Night's Watch.

After her bath, Lyanna was visited by a few other northern ladies, who competed for the opportunity to brush and braid her hair, lace her into her gown, and give all kinds of advice. Listening to the ones already wed was far from reassuring – Bethany, the Lady Bolton, said the pain of bedding would become bearable after the first time, even though Lyanna could not imagine Rhaegar hurting her. Lady Donella Hornwood claimed that a skilled lover would know how to avoid pain and give pleasure instead, and at the very least, they knew the prince already had a wife who seemed to love him well enough, so he'd likely know what he was doing. Bethany's younger sister, Lady Barbrey Ryswell, blushed and wouldn't meet Lyanna's eyes, and considering what she knew about her and Bran, that was hardly a surprise. Dacey Mormont felt no need at all to pretend to be a maid despite being unwed, giving quite detailed suggestions that made Barbrey blush even more, and the others laugh.

“The princess seems very friendly towards you, my lady”, said Lady Donella, threading moonstone beads into Lyanna's hair. “Her gestures, this magnificent necklace...” It was lying on a pillow, ready for Lyanna to don it. “Black pearls. I have seen many kinds of pearls come through White Harbor, but the black ones are the rarest of all.”

“She has been very kind to me.” Lyanna slipped a ring onto her finger, a large white opal set in silver. It worked well with the richly embroidered sleeve of her gown; the one she'd been meant to wed Lord Robert in. She'd never worn anything so heavy, and that was without the maiden cloak.

“Far be it from me to speak against Her Grace”, said Lady Bethany, “but if you will take one word of advice from a fellow northern woman who means you well, my lady – then I would counsel you to beware the princess. Smiles and generosity can hide daggers and poison.”

“Poison in particular”, said Lady Donella, weaving an elaborate braid. “The Dornish are known for it, and Prince Oberyn most of all. My lady should not only be cautious of the princess, but also of the Red Viper.”

Lyanna didn't know if she was being naïve, but she could hardly imagine that either of the Martells would want to harm her.

Lady Barbrey spoke. “We all feel so awful for letting you go alone, my lady. Journeying south with no-one but Lord Eddard to confide in – I am sure that if you so wished, you would be allowed to choose a few lady companions.”

That was it, then. They wanted to come to court. Lyanna had wondered why so few of the younger girls were present, but could now imagine the subdued scramble that had taken place at the northern ladies' table during the breakfast.

This was strange. She wasn't used to people seeking her favour, nor to being in a position where the decision was essentially her own to make.

“I will”, she said, “in due time. The king being who he is, I will not be at court before Prince Rhaegar's regency is truly secured.” She could feel Lady Donella letting go of her hair as she had finished her work. “Until then, any lady to join me would only be subjected to unnecessary danger and discomfort.”

This wasn't entirely true, as Rhaegar clearly intended to keep both her and Elia away from either. They wouldn't join him in the capital until later.

“That is wise, my lady”, Bethany demurred. Dacey Mormont did not. “If you are concerned about danger”, she said, “then have me join you, at the very least. I have no doubt that Lord Eddard will do all in his power to protect you, but I would be able to do so in situations in which a man could not.”

Lyanna considered. The women of Bear Island were trained to fight; that was widely known. Lady Dacey was making a compelling argument, and not only because Lyanna liked her. “If Lord Mormont so permits”, she said, “then I would welcome your companionship and protection.”

Dacey chuckled. “He will have no choice but to allow it.”

She held up her hair for Lady Bethany to fasten Elia's necklace, and then rose to examine herself in a large Myrish mirror. She looked more like herself than she had expected with all this splendour. Of course she'd rarely ever worn anything that wasn't fine and well-tailored, but her usual attire would be a lot more plain that this. Heavy samite the colour of untouched snow trimmed with silver lace and studded with pearls and diamonds – and yet, the gown was barely able to compete with the bright spots of red and shimmering black pearls on the necklace.

Still, the face looking back at Lyanna was her own, only perhaps a touch more regal.

Bran came to take her a while after the ladies had gone, a white bundle folded over his arm. “You look ready to be crowned”, he said.

“That shall have to wait a while.” He shrugged and unfolded the maiden's cloak so she could see it, the snarling cloth-of-silver direwolf splendid in its detail.

Lyanna stood. “You can practice for your own bride”, she said, letting Bran fasten the cloak around her shoulders before adding: “I am sorry I will miss your wedding.”

“I would have liked for you to meet her.” He pulled her into a brief, but firm hug, then let go and shook his head. “I was ready to give you away, but I had thought it would be to a different man.”

“A better man, or a worse one?”, she asked. If the duel had shown her anything, it was that she truly would not have wanted to be Lord Robert's wife.

Bran sighed deeply. “Likely a worse one. They both fought for you. Lord Baratheon was ready to kill for your hand, though I suppose Rhaegar was willing to die for it. He had all rights to demand that Robert use a sword and gain an easy victory, but was too much of a man to do so. That shows honour.”

She didn't think he had been willing to die at all, largely because that would have defeated the entire purpose.

They began their way to the godswood, the castle eerily quiet. There would be many witnesses to this wedding. “I believe I will wed the Lady Catelyn in a sept”, Bran said, sounding slightly disgruntled. “Even though Riverrun even has a weirwood as its heart tree.”

“You can always do both”, she advised. “It will be strange enough for her, coming to Winterfell and not finding a sept. Perhaps you should have one built.”

Bran hummed. “Perhaps. It is still strange to think about – of course Mother is strong and healthy, but if she does not live to see my daughters grow, who will instruct them in the old way?”

“You”, she said. “It is the same, to a large extent. And I can always come to visit, as I would like to show my son the North.” Before he would have to face the horrors that would come upon them.

“You will have to. What is the point of a prince with Stark blood if he has never been to Winterfell?”

She couldn't argue with that. They grew more quiet the closer they got, and Lyanna began to feel nervous, the reality of it all only truly sinking in now. This was her _wedding day_. Everything had happened so fast.

It took a long time to even reach the heart tree, so large was the godswood. Dark was setting in and the path was lit by lanterns, and so was the clearing before the weirwood – even though the rising full moon above them provided additional lighting. It was filled with lords and ladies, all parting to make way when they arrived. Lyanna hooked her arm under Bran's.

When the path was clear, she could see her groom. His hair still shone brightly under the dim light, though the red of his clothes seemed darker than it likely was. A few steps from him to one side stood Elia and Prince Oberyn; on the other, Ned and Ben.

By the time they reached him, Lyanna was reminded of the time she'd first been presented to the royal couple in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. She had thought that his gaze had meant something then, and of course it had – because they'd been meant for each other all this time.

Rhaegar smiled at her for the shortest moment, and then his face turned solemn. “Who comes before the gods?”, he asked.

This was better than a wedding in a sept. “Lyanna of House Stark”, Bran replied, “comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods.” Of course, those blessings had been given long ago. “Who comes to claim her?”

This, too, she didn't think to be the most accurate phrasing. The gods were laying claim to them both.

“I, Rhaegar of House Targaryen. Prince of Dragonstone, Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. I claim her.” A shiver went down Lyanna's spine, though not an unpleasant one. She'd always thought of him in terms of prophecy, and as a man – but she'd barely considered the power he now held. He could claim anything he'd want. “Who gives her?”

“Brandon of House Stark, the heir to Winterfell. Her eldest brother.” Bran turned towards her, and she could feel her heart race. “Lady Lyanna, will you take this man?”

What a question. She looked at Rhaegar and couldn't help but smile. “I take this man.”

When she placed her hand in his, it felt pleasantly warm, though his skin was harder than it looked from years of weapons training and harp play. They knelt before the weirwood, and Lyanna placed their joined hands upon the trunk.

There were no visions this time, nor voices. Instead, she felt a deep calm come over her, as if something in the universe had settled into place. _Thank you, gods. _

Rhaegar's expression told her that he'd felt it too. They rose again and he took the maiden cloak off her shoulders, bringing them closer together than they'd been ever since their first conversation.

It was Elia who handed him the wedding cloak. Rhaegar seemed very serious when he secured it, though his face softened as he gently freed her hair from under the brocade and pearls. Lyanna looked into his eyes, seeming black in this light. He smiled when his gaze met hers, and touched her cheek for the briefest moment.

Then he swept her up into his arms, wedding cloak and all, and led the procession to the feast.

“I will admit, Your Grace”, Bran said as Rhaegar let her down in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths, “I did not think you could carry her this far.”

“I was not sure myself”, he said as he pulled back one chair on either side of his, as if he'd seated both Elia and Lyanna a thousand times before. “My arms will thank me on the morrow.”

And then, the feast began. It had meant to be the closing feast of the tournament, though it had been easy enough for the Whents to merely rearrange a few banners. Lyanna could hardly believe all that had happened since that first night in this hall; was unsure whether it felt like more or less than ten days had passed.

Either way, she was here now – somehow, incredibly, married to Prince Rhaegar. _Married_.

“Do you not enjoy your soup, Your Grace?”, she heard someone ask next to her, and had a sip of Dornish wine. “Princess Lyanna?”, the voice said.

Her head spun around to Elia, who'd asked _her_ the question. When she saw her face, the other woman laughed brightly. Rhaegar, sitting between them, was watching the exchange with a knowing smile.

“It is strange, is it not?”, Elia asked. “Truth be told, I almost called you ‘my lady’. Becoming a royal princess is quite an adjustment.”

“Who was the first to call you ‘Your Grace’”, she asked, then added lamely: “Your Grace?”

Elia's expression darkened. “Tywin Lannister. I did quite enjoy hearing it from him.”

Ben had heard them from his seat past Bran and Ned. “Does this mean _we_ need to call you that now?”

Lyanna grinned. “Yes”, she said. “You may only speak to me when spoken to, my lord, and may only approach me while bowing.”

“What if I don't?”, he asked, and she turned to Rhaegar. “Can I have his tongue?”

“Anything for my bride.” Ben seemed to find that very funny.

The feast went on. There were dozens of courses, most of which Lyanna couldn't eat more than a bite of. Then came the toasts – to her, to Rhaegar, to Elia, to the Whents for hosting the tourney. She and Rhaegar opened the dance, and Lyanna found herself both thrilled and embarrassed to be this close him once more. He then danced with Elia and many a lady after her; she with all her brothers, Prince Oberyn, Ser Arthur, Jon Connington, and two of Lord Whent's sons. Ned and Lady Ashara shared two dances, she noted.

Sitting down to catch her breath, Lyanna's eyes were drawn to a window. Though the sun had long set, the light of the full moon seemed brighter than usual.

This reminded her: there was a purpose to all this. She hadn't just got married in order to enjoy a feast – now, the gods were calling for their due.

When Lyanna turned, she found Rhaegar looking in the same direction, then at her. “It is time”, she said quietly, and felt her face burning.

He seemed to take no note of her embarrassment. “The godswood?”

“Where else?” He nodded, and turned to Elia.

They had a conversation so quiet even Lyanna couldn't hear it. Hands were held, Rhaegar looked uncertain while she seemed to say something reassuring. In a quick movement nobody else was likely to see, he tenderly kissed her cheek, then rose.

Lyanna could see Elia briskly turn to look down the hall, an unmistakeable sadness on her features. The familiar guilt returned.

With many guests busy dancing and near everyone quite drunk, they were largely unnoticed while they aimed for a side exit. Only when they reached the door Lyanna heard someone shout.

“Wait!”, a voice said, slurring slightly. “Where are they going? What about the bedding?”

It was Elia who replied, sounding strong and authoritative. “There will be no need for a bedding, my lord.”

“But what about -” The door shut behind them.

They didn't speak on the way to the godswood.

She didn't know what was going through Rhaegar's – _her husband's_ – head, but Lyanna was overcome with nerves. This would be her wedding night.

Glimpses seen in visions aside, she was certain that she'd have no idea what she was doing. What if she didn't please him? It seemed likely. He had Elia already; a woman she was sure he was in love with. Why should he want _her_?

He'd be as gallant and courteous as he'd always been, of course. He'd try not to hurt her body, nor her feelings. She wasn't sure if that would make it better or worse.

By the time they reached the clearing before the heart tree, she had worked herself up into a frenzy of uncertainty. Then, Lyanna saw the weirwood, and most of it went away. Somehow, even a face as vicious as this one was calming.

Slowly walking across the clearing with the moonlight upon her, Lyanna felt that the situation had a certain gravity to it. Behind her, Rhaegar sang a short verse of a vaguely familiar song, in Valyrian. It was a beautiful sound, but she couldn't understand it, as she'd barely been taught the language.

“Your Grace?”, she asked, turning to him when she'd arrived at the weirwood. He looked otherworldly in this light.

His smile only strengthened the effect. “A maid as white as winter”, he said while he approached, “with moonglow in her hair. And you need not call me that when we are alone, Lyanna.”

How strange to hear him say her name without a title – and even stranger that she was no longer the Lady Lyanna anyway. “Of course.” He was right in front of her now, and she fixed her eyes on his three-headed dragon pin. Unsure of what else to do, she turned to the weirwood and sat on its roots, leaning against the trunk.

“Sit with me”, she said, “_Rhaegar._ Gods, this will take some getting used to.”

He sunk down beside her, stretching out his legs. They spent a moment in silence, listening to the sounds of the godswood and watching the moon far above.

“This must have been such a rapid change for you”, he said after a while. “I know you have been aware that this had to happen for a long time, and yet – I must apologise. I have plucked you out of your life, forcing you to part from your family and taken you as wife at a time when this could place you in great danger -”

“No”, she interrupted, and he fell quiet. “If I had wanted it to happen any other way, I would have said so. This is the time chosen by the gods, yes – just look around us. _Feel_ this.” She placed her palm on the tree and he did the same, both aware of the strange, pulsating energy it gave of. Expectation, perhaps.

“But it is also what _I_ want”, Lyanna continued. “Does Your – do you think I wanted to wed Robert Baratheon? A man who clearly loved the idea he had of me, but who likely would have spent much of our marriage drinking and whoring while making up for it by buying me a new horse once in a while. Or, considering you reached a settlement with the Great Houses, should I have liked to return to Winterfell and spend another year or two tormented by visions and inaction, with no-one but the gods to talk to?” She shook her head vehemently. “It is I who should apologise. To barge into your marriage with the princess, while she has been so kind and this is only hurting her; to make you be here when you could be in her bed right now – I should not have agreed to the marriage. You will be king; you could have legitimised our bastard son. This does me too much honour.”

“Lyanna.” The way he said her name pulled her back from her anxious outburst. “Do you truly believe that?”

She thought about it. “That I do want to be here? Yes. That I believe you should not have wed me nonetheless? No. Not fully, at the very least.”

“Good.” He seemed to weigh his words carefully; the dark purple of his eyes just visible in the moonlight. There was a reason people spoke of the Targaryens as more than human, she supposed. “We could spend all night apologising to each other, and then go to Elia and apologise some more. I was just about to add another apology of my own, but I will not. A marriage cannot be built entirely on remorse.” He studied her face, smiling ever so slightly. “Instead I will merely state this, non-apologetically: I have wanted you to be my wife ever since I first saw you. I had plans for this either way, of course, but when I saw you stand between your brothers on the dais, looking at me with such intensity, I thought: the gods are good.”

She tried to hide her foolish grin under her hair, but he brushed it aside, smiling just as widely. “I was so nervous when I was first presented to you”, Lyanna admitted. “And then our eyes met and I wished you were able to read my mind, even though it would have been _horribly_ embarrassing. The first time we spoke, right here by the tree, has never once left my mind. Especially when...” She couldn't say it.

Rhaegar placed his finger on her lips just like he had back then, and she could do nothing but nod. She also really wanted to kiss it.

Instead, he replaced his finger with his own lips. It was the sweetest feeling she'd ever known – though not for long.

Later – she'd never be able to tell just how long; time barely seemed real – as she was moving beneath him under the supernaturally bright light of the full moon, mind foggy with pleasure, Lyanna placed a hand on the weirwood's roots.

The gods, it was clear, approved.


	24. 23/06/281 - Elia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're entering a brave new world. From here on out, things have gone so differently that canon compliance is pretty much completely out of the window.  
Also, my efforts to not have to come up with chapter titles are creating ever-weirder formats, I know. I guess the advantage is that it's easy to see when things are happening, as this third and final part will consist of 19 chapters spanning 16 months in irregular intervals.

**Part 3: Destiny**

_An inn on the kingsroad, three days after the tourney at Harrenhal_

Their party filled the place completely, though the innkeeper wasn't complaining. Rhaegar, Elia, and Lyanna; Oberyn, Eddard Stark, Jon Arryn, Brynden Tully, Mace Tyrell; three knights of the Kingsguard, Jon Connington, a northern lady named Dacey Mormont, and Ashara Dayne – as well as all the requisite servants, guards, squires, pages, maesters, and a few of Elia's singers. The inn was colourful with the banners of the many Houses represented and teeming with activity, even more so as many from nearby villages and holdfasts had come to get a glimpse of the prince and his two brides.

This had been the same the two days before, and suited them well. After all, it could only help in winning over the commons.

After a long day spent in her wheelhouse, Elia was content to be somewhere that wasn't moving, though the hearty meal they had had certainly helped. Lyanna and Lady Dacey had preferred to ride themselves, something that Elia found difficult to do for long distances with her ever-larger belly, and so Ashara had kept her company – even though she'd brought her own carriage to Harrenhal; a fact that Elia was now extremely grateful for. It made their plans much easier to realise.

The day's travel was done, but their work was not. Harrenhal had been a complete triumph: Rhaegar had convinced the great lords, wed Lyanna Stark, and won the joust. Now, however, they'd have to reckon with the consequences of these outcomes.

After they'd all had their supper, Rhaegar sang for the smallfolk who'd come to see them, sitting atop a cart in the courtyard, Elia and Lyanna smiling by his side. It was a good opportunity to show themselves together, and with one of each woman's brothers present as well – the last opportunity, in fact, before their party would split the next morning. Elia had directed Oberyn to stand beside Lord Eddard while Rhaegar sang, and she didn't think that Stark had even noticed. He was far too busy exchanging glances with Ashara.

Her friend's confessions in the wheelhouse had been interesting, Elia thought as Rhaegar sang a song he'd written about Rhaenys and Visenya (subtlety would only undermine their efforts). While she had been occupied with matters of the Great Council, getting Rhaegar and Lyanna married, recruiting the singers, and planning their journey, she had been completely blind to the actual romance developing between Ashara and Lord Eddard. Nothing had _happened_, Ashara had told her; Eddard being far too honourable to even be alone in a room with her, but they were courting. Elia could only hope that this wouldn't end in heartbreak, especially as either of them could be betrothed at any time. They would have to part on the morrow as well, and Ashara had been begging her to make sure that Eddard would not return north right after all was done in the capital. She couldn't promise anything, but had resolved to try.

Rhaegar's song came to an end, the captivated gazes of the folk around them indicating that it had served its purpose. Elia was about to tell her singers to play a lively tune so all could dance when a murmur went through the crowd, and it parted to reveal a new arrival.

It was a man wearing slightly tattered white robes, a seven-stranded belt around his waist and a crystal around his neck. For a moment, he simply stared at the three of them.

Rhaegar put on a wide smile, the kind she knew was hardly genuine. “Come join us, good septon!”, he called out. “It is always a pleasure to encounter a man of the gods. I am afraid that we have taken up much space in this inn, but I am sure a bed and a meal can be found for you.”

The man bowed stiffly. “Your Graces”, he said, casting a glance along the highborn company. “My lords, my ladies.” He seemed to hesitate, then added: “It pains me to say that the pleasure is not mine. I had hoped to find godly company here, but all I can see is sin.”

In a way, she was impressed by the septon's courage. Elia would likely have been more annoyed if she had not known that this was all Rhaegar had been waiting for.

“You say this as if godly people would never sin, while you and I and all present know this to be false.” Rhaegar handed her his harp and hopped down from the cart. Elia caught Lyanna's worried gaze and smiled reassuringly. “But that is not the reason for your objection to our company, of course”, Rhaegar continued. “What is your name?”

“Elmar, Your Grace.” The atmosphere was tense. The highborn were watching the septon with suspicion, Kingsguard most of all, while the smallfolk seemed uncertain of how they should react.

“Septon Elmar.” Rhaegar nodded to himself, striding a few paces towards the man as ever more space opened around them. “You take issue with my marriage, is that the case?”

“Your Grace.” The man was clearly nervous. “The gods take no issue with your marriage to the Princess Elia.” He nodded towards her. “You were wed by the High Septon himself; I was in the capital on that day. A godly match – one man, _one_ wife.”

“And she has brought much joy into my life ever since. But go on, good man; you have more to say than this.”

“One wife”, Elmar repeated. “To take a second is a grave sin in the eyes of the gods. In fact, as the gods cannot allow this, a second wife is no wife at all.”

Lyanna sat tall and proud as all eyes wandered to her, though her gaze was as furious as the snarling silver direwolf on the clasp holding her cloak. Elia was now glad that they had taken the cool-headed Lord Eddard along instead of Brandon.

“That is a very strange way to see it”, said Rhaegar. “A wrong one, in fact. As many in this company can attest, I wed the Princess Lyanna a mere three days ago. I cannot quite see how she would not be my wife.”

Elia approved of this argument. It was a simple logic, and thus, one that should appeal to many.

“Your Grace did not wed her in a sept, from what one hears”, Elmar replied. “As no septon would have done so, to be sure. All tales reaching me from Harrenhal have spoken of a wedding before a tree. In the eyes of the Faith Your Grace professes to follow, that is no true marriage.”

This did not sit well with the Stark guards accompanying them, nor with Dacey Mormont, who spat on the ground. Lyanna's jaw was clenched, Elia could tell. Only Eddard remained impassive.

Rhaegar cocked his head. “A wedding before the old gods is no wedding?”, he asked. “I do believe you are alone in this assessment. Perhaps you should like to explain it to some of our companions.” He nodded towards Lord Eddard. “The Lord and Lady of Winterfell, parents to my dear lady wife and my good-brother over here, were wed before a weirwood. So were the mother and father of Lady Dacey, and undoubtedly those of many more of our northern friends. Are you calling all of them bastards, Septon Elmar?”

The man paled as the northern faces turned decidedly murderous. Somewhere in the crowd, they could hear a dagger being unsheathed.

“Well, certainly not”, the septon said quickly. “There are different customs in the North.”

“Where does Princess Lyanna hail from?” Rhaegar was unusually curt, Elia thought, and began to suspect that he might be truly angry.

“The _lady_”, Elmar said, “is of the North.”

Now, Rhaegar's anger was plain, at least to her. “Septon, you would do well not to go too far”, he said, dangerously calm. “When speaking of the royal family, one must use the proper titles.” It would be so easy to just have Elmar seized and at least maimed in some horrid way. The many nervous faces Elia could see told her that she wasn't the only one to think that – but she knew that this wasn't what they were trying to achieve.

Rhaegar continued: “I have taken a northern lady to bride, thus making her a _princess_. Out of respect for her House, this wedding has taken place before a heart tree. I still do not see how anyone could claim that she is not my wife.”

The septon bowed, surely aware that he would have to thread carefully. “Be that as it may, Your Grace, polygamy remains a sin.”

“For some”, Rhaegar agreed. “Incest is a sin, too – for some. My own mother, the queen, and father, the king, are brother and sister, as were their parents before them. Am I an abomination, Septon Elmar?”

A small, spiteful part of her wanted him to say yes, just so she could watch the consequences.

The thought somewhat startled Elia. She was becoming vengeful.

“Of course not, Your Grace. Your House stems from Valyria, where such things -” The septon stopped as he understood that he was truly arguing against himself now.

“Where such things were the custom.” Rhaegar nodded. “Precisely. So was polygamy. Tell me, goodwoman”, he turned to a peasant woman at the forefront of the crowd, prompting her to stare at him wide-eyed, “how many wives did Aegon the Conqueror have?”

“T- two”, she stammered, “Your Grace. Rhaenys and Visenya.” She tried to curtsey.

“Two”, Rhaegar repeated. “Indeed. So why should I, royal and Valyrian that I am, not take two wives? And they are not even my sisters.” He looked to the innkeeper. “You seem a good and godly man to me, spending your life giving strangers food and shelter. Do you think my marriage ungodly?”

As if he could say yes. “'Course not, Your Grace. I think it brave. The gods know one wife is enough trouble for me.”

Some laughed, while Elia fought the urge to roll her eyes. Rhaegar quickly went through a few of the spectators, establishing that neither the inn's stableboy nor one of the local farmers took issue with his marriage, and that it also found agreement with the miller's wife and the merchant's daughter.

“I believe it is quite clear then, Septon Elmar, that you are alone in your opinion – unless you have changed it, of course. Should you view our party as tolerable company now, you are still welcome to join us.” He pointed to the dark kingsroad behind the inn. “If not, none will hinder you from leaving, although the road can be perilous at this time of night.”

Elia was sure that the septon heard the threat. It would be so simple for one of their countless guards to slip away in the dark and come after him.

Elmar bowed once more. “I will gladly accept your generous offer, Your Grace.”

Later that same night, they could hear the sound of the smallfolk's revelry outside from within Lyanna's bedchamber in the inn. They had paid for food and drink for everyone who should want it.

Elia wasn't the only one to be tired, but they had to convene one last time. “Baratheon is two days ahead of us”, Oberyn said, “or likely more. He will not have stopped for as long as we have.”

Lord Eddard nodded. “Undoubtedly. He could be in the capital on the morrow, or the day after.”

They could not be certain that Lord Baratheon would do anything but travel through or even past King's Landing, but it was on the way to Storm's End.

“News will have reached my father either way”, Rhaegar said. “I doubt we will be welcomed into the city. My hopes rest with the Kingsguard.”

“And what if they will not help you?”, Lyanna asked. “Or cannot?”

“Then there are other ways inside.”

If Elia had to guess, she would say that Lyanna was tired of biting her tongue. She'd done it very well in their confrontation with the septon, to be fair. “Take us with you”, she demanded.

“No.” She couldn't tell if Rhaegar, Oberyn, or Eddard had spoken first. “The princess is with child”, the latter pointed out.

“Take _me_ with you, then”, Lyanna said, as if they could be certain that she wasn't.

“Lyanna”, Elia intervened, and her – her what? Fellow wife? – turned to her. “You would not truly see me and the Lady Ashara go alone. Then we would be without your Lady Dacey, and she could be very helpful. You know we will be unable to take many guards with us.”

That convinced her. “Is this truly necessary?”, Lord Eddard asked. “Surely the princesses would be safer behind thick castle walls.”

“I can promise you, my lord, that they will be far more safe than you would imagine”, Rhaegar said. “Arrangements have been made with Prince Doran.”

“He is sending men”, Oberyn added. “We already have a guard there, but it cannot hurt to bring reinforcements.”

“And they will not be obvious?” Lord Eddard glanced at Lyanna. “Forgive me, Your Graces, but I do worry for my sister.”

“Of course”, Elia said. “Rest assured that we will be well.”

She saw the Starks exchange a look, and Lyanna slightly nod. Elia wouldn't be surprised if Lord Eddard had his suspicions against her, though she doubted that Lyanna would share them.

Her door opened just as she laid down under the covers.

Safe in the knowledge that it was being guarded by Ser Barristan, Elia wasn't alarmed. Peering through the dark, she saw the familiar shine of silver hair.

“Should you not be working on the prince that was promised?”

She watched Rhaegar's head come closer, and then more of him as he stopped near by her bed, just close enough for the light from outside the window to show his shape. “I do not know when I will see you again”, he said. Elia could vaguely make out that he was looking at her. “Do you want me to leave?”

_Yes_, her pride wanted her to say. But that would be petty, and a lie besides. “Stay. Though you should not expect anything to happen.” He was likely exhausted anyway, she thought bitterly.

He said nothing as he stepped around to the other side of the bed, undressed, and climbed in next to her. After a moment of hesitation, he moved closer, and Elia let herself shift back into his arms.

By the gods, if it didn't feel good. She should somehow resent his touch, but felt only warmth and comfort. They were lying the way they had so many times before: him behind her, his hand on her belly.

It took a while until he spoke, face in her hair. “On the night Lyanna and I were wed, I told her that we could not spend forever apologising. That a marriage could not only be built on remorse.” A pause. “Still. Can you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive.” At the very least, Elia knew that she didn't have anything to apologise for, and she was determined to keep it that way.

“Do you mean it?”, he asked, knowing her too well.

That was far harder to say. “I know it”, she replied. “It does not mean that it is what I feel, but what is there to do?”

In response, he pulled her closer. “I do not deserve you.”

“Perhaps not.” With a sigh, Elia turned onto her back, letting her head fall to the side to face him even though there was hardly anything to see. “You are right, however. There is no use in eternal apologies, and truth be told, I am sick of them. It is what it is. Let us speak of something more pleasant, such as our continuing defiance of the Faith.”

She heard him snort. “What did you think of my performance?”

“It was good. I was very relieved that you did not spend too much time arguing doctrine, as your audience surely would not have followed.”

“I am reserving that for the High Septon.” Elia turned onto the side facing him, and took his hand.

“Your regency having the support of five Great Houses will be the only argument he will require.”

“Let us hope so.” He placed a kiss on her knuckles. “I will call you back to the Red Keep as soon as it is safe.”

“You must. In the meantime, I shall do my best to turn Lyanna against you. We will be the best of friends upon our return, and she will no longer care for you at all.”

“I see.” She felt his hand in her hair, and then he tenderly kissed her lips. “You can dream of that. We best go to sleep if we want to leave early on the morrow.”

He was right. Elia turned back around and curled up in his arms, drifting to sleep quickly.

The next morning, the royal party split, though all left before dawn.

Prince Rhaegar, the lords or their representatives, and the knights Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan rode further south along the kingsroad, heading for the capital.

The royal wheelhouse, huge and splendid in black lacquered wood with a beautifully carved three-headed dragon on its top, headed straight east towards the coast. It was followed by a group of servants on carts, and led by a man wearing a white cloak, though only few knew that he was merely a guard and it wasn't his to wear. A ship would be ready once it arrived, meant to take the two princesses to Dragonstone.

A smaller carriage bearing the arms of House Dayne was heading slightly further west than the prince. It would cross the Blackwater Rush miles away from King's Landing and travel towards Dorne. In front rode a lady dressed in Dornish garb who knew well not to speak in the presence of strangers, as her accent would betray her, together with a knight who'd left his white cloak in the carriage. There were Dayne household guards and servants, but not many. All travellers they'd encounter would hear that they were to bring Lady Ashara Dayne back to Starfall, though their journey would be much shorter than this. Their true destination lay at the foot of the Red Mountains; in a ruin rumoured by the smallfolk to be cursed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _think_ that it should probably take a week to get from Harrenhal to King's Landing at the royal party's speed. It's about a quarter of the way from Winterfell to King's Landing, and that took a month in AGOT under similar circumstances.


	25. 26/06/281 – Rhaegar

_King's Landing, seven days after the tourney at Harrenhal_

Rhaegar rode at the front of their procession, flanked by Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan carrying Targaryen banners.

Behind them were his personal guard, and then Oberyn with his men, as well as Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, Brynden Tully, and Mace Tyrell. Jon was the last of the highborn contingent, followed by their retainers and a few of Elia's singers. They were by no means an army – he had not wanted to be seen as _attacking_ the city – but he hoped that the multitude of banners behind them proved that they could amass one, should the need arise.

During their approach, the situation quickly became clear. Usually, the kingsroad would be busy this close to the city; a steady stream of people travelling in both directions. Now, however, it was deserted, and the Dragon Gate in the massive city walls was very clearly closed. Gold cloaks assembled atop the wall while they advanced.

As expected, then.

Still, they carried on. Rhaegar only stopped his horse when in shouting distance of the walls, and heard the procession halt behind him. “Who goes?”, a guard called out, superfluously.

Ser Barristan responded by shouting out his name and titles – Prince of Dragonstone, Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm – as well as those of the men behind him.

For a while, nothing happened, prompting Rhaegar to wonder whether his father meant to purely ignore him. Then, a small door in the Dragon Gate opened.

Manly Stokeworth rode out; the commander of the City Watch. In a way, Rhaegar thought, this would all be quite awkward. He'd known the man for many years.

“Prince Rhaegar.” Stokeworth eyed him cautiously, and didn't bow. “His Grace the king has sent me to inform you that you are barred from entering King's Landing.”

Rhaegar glanced towards the gate. “I can tell. And why did my royal father think to do this?”

“In his words”, a short hesitation, “it is because you are a traitor to the Crown and the realm, as are all the lords in your retinue.”

“A traitor.” He hadn't been sure if his father would go quite that far. “Which treason am I accused of?”

“Plotting rebellion against the king.” That was, in a way, a very reasonable accusation. “As well as marrying without His Grace's consent.” He supposed he could've guessed that, too.

“Has my royal sire been informed”, Rhaegar asked, “that a Great Council has declared me the Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm?”

Stokeworth carefully worded his response. “It has come to the king's attention that a group of renegade lords has made such a pronouncement, yes. His Grace does not, however, accept its legitimacy.”

At least, this was more pleasant than directly speaking to his father might've been. “How is your eyesight, Lord Manly?”

The man frowned. “Excellent, as it must be for a commander.”

Rhaegar pointed over his shoulder. “Then you can surely see the banners behind me. These _renegade lords_, as my father would call them, are or represent the Prince of Dorne; the Wardens of the East, South, and North; as well as the Lord Paramount of the Trident. Together, they rule more than half of this realm, and command more than half its fighting force as well.” Stokeworth opened his mouth, but Rhaegar shushed him with a look and went on. “The decision reached at the Great Council was made unanimously by the majority of the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, and agreed upon by a number of esteemed maesters to be in full accordance with the law.” Not that there was a clear law on these kinds of things, but there were few enough people to know that. To claim that it had been a majority of lords to decide anything wasn't true, either – but certainly most of the _great_ lords, and their bannermen were sworn to follow them.

Lord Manly just looked at him, so Rhaegar continued. “As such, I am legally the Lord Regent of this realm. My royal father will remain the king until the gods decide it is time for him to meet the Stranger, but holds no more power. This decision was made the day before I wed Lyanna Stark, and thus, the marriage did not require my sire's approval. Neither does he have the power to bar me from entering the city.”

He looked into Stokeworth's eyes and awaited a reaction. After a moment, the man gave a stiff nod. “I shall relay these arguments to the king”, he said.

“Please do.” Rhaegar couldn't keep speaking to him, however. “When he has a reply, do send Ser Gerold.”

“The Lord Commander is occupied with guarding His Grace.”

He was beginning to reconsider Lord Manly's future employment. “There are four knights of the Kingsguard within the city, and three members of the royal family. I am sure they can do without Ser Gerold for a short time.”

Stokeworth returned to the gate without another word. Once the door had closed behind him, Rhaegar sighed. “We might as well dismount”, he decided. “This could take a while.”

It did, in fact, take several hours until the door opened again. At least it was actually Ser Gerold.

Leaving the others behind at the camp they were beginning to build, Rhaegar walked up to meet him with the other two Kingsguard.

After Ser Gerold dismounted, he did bow. “What is happening in the castle?”, Rhaegar asked him.

The knight slowly shook his head. “I am sworn to guard the king's secrets.”

“We are no longer bound by the king's commands”, replied Ser Oswell, “but by the Lord Regent's.”

The Lord Commander remained silent. “This must be very conflicting for you, ser”, Rhaegar said. “For that, I am sorry. I do not mean to divide loyalties – not yours, Ser Gerold, and not those of the entire Kingsguard. You do understand that what I did was necessary.”

“That is not for me to judge. A vow is a vow.” Rhaegar felt sympathy for him. Not only because they'd known each other for so long (he'd been the White Bull's squire, after all), but also because this put all seven knights into a difficult situation.

On the other hand, the three who'd been with him at Harrenhal seemed to have found it easy enough to choose, and he had no doubt that the same applied to Prince Lewyn.

“For now”, he decided, “simply give me the message my lord father has sent you to deliver.”

Ser Gerold's eyes were sad. “The king has commanded me to kill you.”

Immediately, Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell's hands were at the hilts of their swords. Ser Gerold's was not.

“Will you try?”, Rhaegar asked, knowing the answer.

“Of course not. A vow _is_ a vow.” Barristan and Oswell relaxed.

Somehow, he had not thought that his father would actually want him dead, even when Lord Manly had told him he'd been branded a traitor. A lifetime locked away, perhaps, but not an outright death sentence.

The thought didn't bother him nearly as much as it should. “I will never harm you, Your Grace”, Ser Gerold continued, “but someone might. There is a price on your head.”

“How much?”, Rhaegar asked, feeling morbid curiosity.

The Lord Commander cleared his throat. “Twenty-thousand golden dragons.”

“Pitiful. I thought that at least in death, my sire might value me higher than a tourney price.”

“My prince.” Ser Gerold shook his head again. “You must be careful. For your own sake, and for that of Prince Viserys and the queen. You should also know that the king has named Viserys the Prince of Dragonstone.”

Of course – as far as Aerys was concerned, Rhaegar was gone from the line of succession, and Viserys his heir. “My father can no longer decide on titles.”

“He can”, Ser Gerold replied, “as long as he is inside the Red Keep, and you outside the walls.”

The Lord Commander was right, Rhaegar knew. “I will not be outside the walls much longer.”

“Be careful”, Ser Gerold repeated, then glanced at the other two knights. “Where is Ser Arthur?”

Closer to his destination every day, he hoped. “With the princesses.”

Ser Gerold didn't even flinch at the plural. “And where are they? Dragonstone?”

“On their way there.” Rhaegar didn't think he could tell him the truth, sadly enough.

A pained look flashed over the Lord Commander's face. He seemed to want to say something, then didn't. “I must go”, he announced instead.

“How?”, Rhaegar asked. “I am still alive. You have disobeyed his orders.”

“Perhaps”, Ser Gerold responded, “but the only ones who could even hope to harm me are my sworn brothers, and they would not, knowing that my vows were conflicting.”

“That is precisely it, is it not?” Rhaegar pointed around him. “When faced with such a conflict, one must choose the option that will cause less harm. You know which one that is, ser.”

Ser Gerold made to turn, then stopped. “I will not be able to stand by if someone tries to kill your father, Rhaegar.”

He was taken aback – stupidly, perhaps. “Neither would I. His death is not my aim.”

“He believes it is.”

“He believes a great deal of things, and most of them make little to no sense.” Rhaegar pointed behind him. “Know this, Ser Gerold. I will reach the Red Keep one way or another, and my father's reign ended days ago. I do have time, however. I will have my allies call their banners, and should the king not bow to the Great Council's decision until they reach the capital, it will need to be carried through with force.”

The Lord Commander looked very tired. “You have a small group here, Your Grace. The City Watch alone could slaughter you while you wait.”

“Leaving themselves weakened by the time more than a hundred thousand men arrive, led by those wanting to avenge me and my fallen companions.” He wouldn't put the idea beyond his father, but had more trust in Manly Stokeworth's survival instinct. “The Reach, Riverlands, Vale, North, and Dorne. I'd much rather this would all be resolved without bloodshed.”

“So would I”, Ser Gerold said. Rhaegar didn't know if this was a general statement, or if he was implying anything else.

“Would you be able to stand by if someone tried to kill me?”, he asked.

“I swore a vow”, the Lord Commander replied, and headed back towards his horse.

Rhaegar took that as a no.

“Do you truly believe it will come to war, Your Grace?”, Lord Arryn asked.

They were in Rhaegar's tent, having made camp outside the walls. It was very true that they could easily be attacked and perhaps all killed from within the city, but the point remained – this would only lead to most of the realm attacking, and people inside were aware of this.

“Most likely not”, he said. “Send out ravens; ensure that they can be seen flying out from the city walls. Tell your bannermen to ready themselves so they could march if it did, regrettably, become necessary. My true intent, however, was to buy us time.”

On a table before them lay a detailed map of the capital, and he pointed towards the River Gate and harbour. “It is near impossible to completely seal off King's Landing. The city gates are not truly the only way to enter – although they will suffice for now, as the gold cloaks are easy to bribe. As a first measure, I have sent a few of my personal guard and several singers to do just that, assess the mood of the people, and report back what they see inside.”

“And they will be let in?” Lord Eddard frowned down at the map. “Would it not be a great risk to the watchmen letting them enter?”

Oberyn smirked. “A few bards and common scoundrels? Hardly. Never underestimate the level of corruption in the capital, my lord.”

“And then?” Ser Brynden Tully was leaning on the table. “What is it Your Grace hopes to find out?”

“Our prince has long been very popular with the people of the city”, Jon explained. “It will be important to know if this has changed.”

“Oh, but surely not.” Mace Tyrell appeared amazingly relaxed, despite the circumstances. “A few days' worth of poisoned words from the king can hardly turn them all against Your Grace.”

“That is what we are hoping for”, Rhaegar replied. “This aside, there remains another possibility for entering without an army.” He tapped at the spot on the map designating the outer walls of the Red Keep. “Tunnels under and through the castle, most of which are unknown to many. I am sure that even I am only aware of a few. The possibility of entering the Red Keep through the back door while all are asleep remains open – but I would rather know the situation inside before doing so.”

“Surely, Your Grace will not be the only one to know of these passages”, Lord Arryn remarked, and Rhaegar had to admit that he was right. “The question, my lords, is how much opposition we would face should we attempt this way inside. And as long as my father believes us to be waiting for an army, he will not begin to wonder what it is we are hoping to accomplish out here.”

Towards the evening, they had readied their encampment. More concerned about assassins than an all-out assault, guards both visible and hidden were posted all around it, while they took care that all of their servants were known to everyone. After all, they'd just returned from a tourney, and had more women and non-fighting men with them than they would've had they marched to war – but at least, their numbers were small enough to closely watch everyone. Ravens were sent out all across the realm, though he dispatched a rider to inform his wives of the situation instead.

Having just spoken to those guarding the back of the camp, Rhaegar was about to return to his tent for the night, Ser Barristan and Ser Oswell always at his side. Considering the situation, all three tensed up as they heard shouts from behind them, and turned to see a man on horseback approaching at high speed.

If this was an assassin, Rhaegar thought, he was a bad one. Ser Oswell stepped before him while Ser Barristan protected his back and the guards raised their swords.

The rider stopped a few feet away. They could now see that he was wearing a cloak and hood, as was the clearly struggling child he had before him in the saddle.

The tension melted away as soon as he revealed his face. “There is no need for that”, Prince Lewyn Martell said, jumping off his horse and picking up the child. “Unhand me at _once_”, a small voice commanded from under the hood.

“Inside”, Rhaegar said. They hurried towards his tent, leaving Lewyn's horse to the guards, and only let Viserys down once safely out of sight.

When his hood was removed, his brother confusedly took in his surroundings: the familiar Targaryen colours and knights of the Kingsguard. Then, he found him.

His eyes went wide. “Rhaegar!”, he said, looking frantically around once more. “But – Father says -” His lip quivered, and he began to cry.

He wasn't prepared for this. Rhaegar thought he should probably hug him, but Viserys' little arms swatted him away. Instead, he knelt on the floor before him, not quite sure of what to say.

“You need not be scared”, was what he settled on.

Viserys adamantly shook his head, face full of snot and tears. “You”, he sniffed, “are a _traitor_! Father says so. You mean to kill him! And me!” He turned and turned, clearly looking for a way to escape, but was surrounded by three very concerned knights of the Kingsguard. “Please don't kill me.”

Rhaegar felt a knot at the back of his throat. “Viserys”, he said, “I would never harm you. Nor Father.”

“But -”, his brother sobbed. “He says you want to kill him to take the crown. And me because I'm now the Prince of Dragonstone. You have a new wife and she's a wolf and you'll have her eat me.”

“I will not.” Rhaegar wasn't sure how to explain it all, but had to secretly marvel at the king's creativity. “She is not a wolf, either. Father is not always right. What does Mother say?”

Viserys shook his head. “I don't know. I never see her anymore. Father is with her a lot.”

Something twisted in his stomach. “Brother”, he said, “you are safe here. Do you understand that?”

He seemed to be getting closer. “You won't kill me?”

“Are you dead?”, Rhaegar asked back, and Viserys seemed doubtful for a moment. “No?”

“Well, there you are. Why would I talk to you if I wanted you dead?”

Viserys had begun wiping at his tears, their flow starting to ebb. “Ser Oswell”, Rhaegar decided, getting back to his feet, “please see him brought to bed somewhere.” His brother had always seemed to like the knight.

Oswell, who wasn't used to undertaking such duties, complied without question. When they were gone, Rhaegar looked at the other two. “Prince Lewyn. I am not complaining, but please do explain.”

“Your Grace.” He nodded and shed the nondescript cloak he'd been wearing, revealing light, equally nondescript armour. It was quite strange not to see him in white. “I will, but first – where is Elia? Have you sent her to Dragonstone?”

It was encouraging that everyone assumed he had. “No. To Summerhall.”

“Oh, Seven Above.” Lewyn's relief was palpable as he sunk into a chair Rhaegar pointed him to. “I had feared the worst.”

“What -”, Rhaegar began, then shook his head and sat opposite the prince. “Everything from the beginning, if you please. Ser Barristan, would you know if there is any wine?”

Lewyn gathered his composure. “Robert Baratheon came to the Red Keep three days hence, carried through the castle on a litter. By then, the first stories of what had happened had already reached us, and – Your Grace.” Rhaegar had never heard it said in such an admonishing tone, he thought while accepting a cup of red. “It is not my place to question you, and Oberyn's tent outside tells me he at least has made peace with the matter, but: a second wife? Oh, thank you, Barristan.”

“You will find that neither your niece nor either of your nephews take issue with this. What exactly did Lord Robert say?”

“That my prince wed her in order to gain House Stark's support for deposing the king. When the Starks announced that they meant to break her betrothal to Lord Baratheon, he challenged you to a duel, wishing to save her honour. You only won because my sworn brothers intervened.”

Not the most plausible tale Robert could've spun, especially considering just how many people saw the fight. “I hope you know this to be false.”

“I had assumed so. The same applies to the fact that Your Grace allegedly vowed before half the nobles of the realm to mount the king's head on a spike.”

“Needless to say, I did not. I take it my father was displeased?”

Lewyn grimaced and took a large swig from his cup. “I had not seen him in such a state since Duskendale. It was ugly, my prince. He ranted and raved for hours, of course, and cut himself on the throne more times than one would think possible – then he convinced himself that you had spies all around, and began to suspect all his personal servants to be assassins, so he ordered them all burned. When the small council arrived, Lord Velaryon counselled caution; arguing that there was no reason to trust Baratheon. He was burned as well.”

At that, even Ser Barristan turned from his guarding position facing the outside of the tent, looking aghast. Rhaegar didn't like it either: he had hoped that Velaryon might have supported him on the inside.

As it turned out, he had tried. And had died for it.

“Where is his son?”, he asked. “Ser – well, Lord Monford.”

“On Driftmark, I believe. He has been called to the capital to beg forgiveness for his father's alleged treason, though I would doubt that he will heed the call.”

“I do not think him to be such a fool.” As terrible as it was, there was an opportunity there. House Velaryon and its fleet would now surely support him. “What then?”

The knight's expression somehow darkened even further. “As always, the burning had got the king into a – state. He only emerged the next morning -”

“Prince Lewyn”, Rhaegar interrupted. “Do not shield me from the full truth. You mean to say that he went to see my mother.”

“He did”, Lewyn said, sounding grim. “I was not guarding her chambers that night, but Ser Jaime was highly disturbed by what he heard. It appears that your father blames the queen for your alleged treason.”

Rhaegar felt sick. He could've known. He _should_ have known, and perhaps he had, but hadn't wanted to seriously entertain the thought. There had been no way to get her away from him, and yet – what she was suffering now was a direct consequence of his own actions.

“Go on”, he said. “The next morning.”

“He declared Viserys the Prince of Dragonstone, announced there was a price on your head, and made plans with Lord Baratheon. Word had spread that Elia – that both princesses, I suppose, were on their way to Dragonstone, while you were nearing the capital. It was decided that Baratheon's forces would attempt to intercept them, or take the castle if they were already inside. I believe that they meant for Elia to be a hostage, while Lady – forgive me, Princess Lyanna's fate would be left to Lord Baratheon. You, he means to have killed.”

As usual, then, Elia had been right. His wives' feigned journey to Dragonstone had been her idea. “Has Baratheon left yet?”

“Two days ago, though not without sending a raven to Storm's End, commanding his brother Stannis to ready their fleet. They will be on their way long before he reaches the castle.”

Rhaegar nodded. “I suppose the new Lord Velaryon will be glad for the opportunity to prove himself, then. I shall write to him.” They had both finished their wine, but it was not a good time to drink much, so he pushed away his empty cup. “How did my father react to Ser Gerold's return today?”

Prince Lewyn shook his head. “The Lord Commander convinced him that you did not emerge from the camp. I am unsure as to how long this will last, as many of the gold cloaks saw you speak to him, but it seems to have been enough for now. Though in all honesty, I am not sure who will have to bear the blame for my escape.”

The idea of having Ser Gerold on his conscience as well was hard to stomach. “This leads us to the next question. Just how is it you are here?”

“I was guarding Prince Viserys tonight”, Prince Lewyn explained. “As Your Grace can imagine, the situation worried me greatly; the threat to Elia in particular – I have come up with a rather long way of rationalising that this did not constitute breaking my vows, if you would care to hear it, but the short version rests on your legitimacy as Lord Regent, and the fact that she is and carries a member of the royal family.”

As if Rhaegar could raise any complaints about Lewyn's actions. “You did nothing wrong.”

“I had hoped you would say that.” The knight glanced at Ser Barristan, once again stoically watching the entrance. “We must all make our choices, after all; even the Kingsguard. But as I was saying, I was guarding Prince Viserys' chambers, tormented by the idea of what might happen. Ser Jaime and Jonothor were upstairs to guard the queen's rooms, where the king was, while Ser Gerold was watching the entrance to Maegor's. I thought I had to find a way to reach you, Your Grace; to tell you of the plan to attack Dragonstone. Though what would happen if I disappeared? I could hear Viserys crying in his room; he has been terribly disturbed by it all, and by the idea that you would do him harm. He has had constant nightmares.”

Rhaegar hoped that it would not take too long for him to regain his brother's trust. His father was the worst influence possible, of course, but Viserys was still so young; only five years old.

“I knew that Ser Gerold had agreed to change places with Ser Jaime during the night; the boy is barely able to stand hearing the king with the queen.” Rhaegar shuddered. “When I thought the time had come, I simply went into Viserys' room, wrapped him up in his covers, and tried to march right out of Maegor's in the few moments the moat should have been unguarded. An awful plan, you might say, but what else was there? And I had been wrong as well – Ser Gerold was still there.”

“He let you go”, Rhaegar said, amazed.

“He did. I thought he would at the very least send me back, or, more likely, force me to fight him – and then I would not have known the outcome. I do not know if I could have killed him. But instead, he looked at me for a long time, Viserys writhing in my arms – and turned away.”

Ser Barristan glanced towards them, clearly surprised as well.

“All must make their choices”, Rhaegar repeated.

Prince Lewyn looked thoughtful. “So we do. After I had escaped Maegor's, the rest was simple enough. I broke into Lord Chelsted's guards' barracks and stole this armour as well as the cloaks, though it was all somewhat hampered by the prince's constant attempts to escape. No word from me could calm him. Once I took him into the passages he quieted, however; I believe he was too scared to make a noise. I took us to the exit near the harbour, stole a horse, and rode for my life.”

“And I thank you for it”, Rhaegar said. Lewyn's and, even worse, Viserys' disappearance would surely enrage his father to an unprecedented end, but at the very least, his brother was now safe.

Further, he couldn't be used against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Over a hundred thousand men” - from what I can gather, a conservative estimate puts the power of the Reach at 50,000; Dorne, North, and the Vale at about 20,000 each; and the Riverlands are very murky. Overall, Rhaegar _could_, theoretically, somehow assemble over 100,000 – if there was a lot of time, Tywin and Robert stayed neutral along with the Greyjoys and all Crownlands lords (or they went to his side), and under the assumption that all bannermen will follow their lieges. So it's really more of a boast than anything else, but the point remains that he does have more than half the realm backing him.


	26. 01/07/281 – Lyanna

_Summerhall, the first few days of the 8th moon of the year 281 AC_

Peering out of the carriage, they'd been able to see the ruined castle for a while. The closer they got, the more impressive it became – it wasn't the first ruin Lyanna had seen, of course, but this was a far cry from an abandoned watchtower in the middle of the northern landscape, or even Moat Cailin. Before the catastrophe that had destroyed it, Summerhall had to have been beautiful: barely fortified, and built in a much newer style than any place she was accustomed to. A palace built for its inhabitants' enjoyment, not protection – though protection was exactly what they were now seeking.

“Did you not say there would be guards?”, Lady Ashara asked as their party pulled up before the ruin. Lyanna, too, couldn't see anyone; only the remnants of what had once been an ornate gatehouse.

“There are”, Elia replied in that way she said many things – completely assured. “Just watch.”

So they did. Pushing aside the curtains, Lyanna saw Ser Arthur dismount and slowly walk through the gate, calling out.

A man appeared as if out of nowhere, wearing light armour with no identifying symbols. He obviously recognised Ser Arthur as they only spoke briefly before he waved at their carriage.

When they passed the gatehouse, other guards appeared. She couldn't tell how they would've been able to hide amongst the ruins, but clearly they had, as the seemingly abandoned walls were suddenly full of activity. By the time the door was opened and she could finally climb out, dozens of men swarmed around them; taking care of horses, carrying chests of their belongings. Somewhere, she could smell roasting meat.

Lyanna took a deep breath of the fresh air, glad that she'd now be able to move further than a few steps away from the carriage. Elia was being helped out by Ser Arthur, looking about as exhausted and relieved as Lyanna felt.

“How is this possible?”, she asked, pointing all around them. There truly weren't many walls left that could give enough cover for all these men. She tried to discretely stretch her limbs.

“A glamour.” Elia stood as if she wasn't sore from a week of only sitting and lying down, a hand placed on her ever-larger belly. “Rhaegar and Oberyn did this long ago. I do not fully understand how, but it should serve us well.”

“Oh, Mother's mercy.” Lady Ashara was shielding her eyes from the daylight. “I am no longer accustomed to the sun. And we are not even in Dorne.”

Half of Dorne seemed to be with them, however, at least judging by the appearance of many of their guards. Lady Dacey, who had reluctantly ceded control of her horse, was taking this in with a frown. Lyanna felt like she should be slightly concerned as well, but couldn't bring herself to distrust her companions – and what was more, Lord Howland had told her not to worry before they'd parted.

Elia nodded towards a half-destroyed stone arch that had clearly once been a grand entrance. “Let us get inside, then. There is more to see than one might think.”

She had been right. Lyanna learned that Rhaegar usually preferred to sleep in the ballroom, though he'd had a large bed installed in one of the few rooms left untouched by the fire before he'd come to Summerhall with Elia after their wedding. Now, she would be sharing it with Elia and Lady Ashara. They'd offered it to Dacey Mormont, too, but she decided to sleep on a straw mattress in a corridor instead. Otherwise, much of the castle was left in ruins, though this was not truly a problem in the mild southern climate.

Elia and Ser Arthur showed them around, pointing out where everything had once been. The room Rhaegar had been born in was barely recognisable as a chamber now, so completely had the fire devoured it – after a still-bleeding Queen Rhaella had been carried out with her babe, of course.

And then, there was the ballroom. Hardly anyone was allowed to enter it, which made sense to Lyanna as soon as she did.

“This is -” She turned around, taking in the large seven-pointed star on one side, and the dragonglass and bone altar on the other. A few chests stood at the sides. “What _is_ this?”

“Rhaegar”, Elia said with a shrug. They were alone. “If we had the roof repaired and added a few bookshelves, he would never need to leave.”

She walked towards the star and Lyanna followed, noticing that it was decorated with colourful symbols and writing, gemstones and different metals beaten into the partly broken floor tiles. “Do you know much about the Faith of the Seven?”

She studied the symbols, instinctively grabbing the purse of runes around her belt. Where were her gods this far south? “A little”, Lyanna said. “My lord father always believed it important that we would have some knowledge of southern customs. But I did not know that things could be quite so...”, she looked at the phrases painted onto the stone, “intricate.”

“Hardly anyone does.” Elia lifted up her skirts and tapped on one point of the star with her foot. “This silver one represents the Mother – did you know that with all the white and silver you tend to wear, it looked to our royal husband as if you had been picked out by Her?”

_Our husband_. It was still very strange. “I did not know that”, she said. “What is it that he does here?”

“Well.” Elia turned away from her. “Sorcery. Quite elaborate rituals, as you may be able to imagine. He took me here after we were wed.” There was a pause. “He wanted magical – or godly – assistance for the conception of our child.”

It took Lyanna a moment to understand what exactly Elia was saying. The unspoken fact that they'd both lain with the same man, and both legitimately, hung heavily in the air.

“What is it like?”, she asked. “To have a child.”

At that, Elia smiled. “Wonderful and terrifying. Not a day passes when I do not miss my little Rhaenys.” She began to walk towards the dragonglass altar, and Lyanna followed. “At least there is great comfort in the knowledge that she is in the Water Gardens. There is no place on earth that is better suited for a child.”

Rhaegar had talked to her about the little princess the second night after their wedding; in an inn a day's ride from Harrenhal. He worried that, young as she was, she would not recognise her parents after many moons of separation – though this was something he would never say to Elia.

“I have heard the Water Gardens are beautiful”, she said. “Though I can hardly imagine what they must look like. To me, everything we saw on our way already appeared lush.”

“You must visit, then.” They had reached the altar, and Lyanna saw that Valyrian glyphs had been chiseled into the dragonglass. “Perhaps when all is done, the three of us can go and get Rhaenys. I hope we will be able to do so while I am still in a condition that allows travel.”

Elia was now at the beginning of the sixth moon of her pregnancy, and during the week they'd spent in their carriage, it had been clear that this was affecting her. Most of all, she was able to ingest far larger portions than one would expect from such a small woman, though she had never once complained of hunger.

Lyanna carefully ran her hand over the smooth dragonglass, having almost expected to feel some sort of strange magical presence. “I would love to go. Do you believe things will be resolved in due time?”

“I do not know.” Elia, too, was looking at the table. “I believe that the plan Rhaegar had when we split can work, but things can always change, and the king is nothing if not unpredictable. Perhaps, however, we will be able to get a glimpse of what is to come.”

There was a knock on the remains of the entrance to the ballroom, and Ser Arthur's head peered inside. “The men have finished roasting the boar, should Your Graces like to eat.”

Lyanna could swear she heard a rumbling come from Elia's stomach, though the princess was unlikely to ever admit it.

They spent the next few days in a strange state – having no idea what was happening in King's Landing, all were worried about the possible outcome. For all they knew, Rhaegar could've been welcomed into the city by cheering crowds the day he arrived. He also could've been killed. Elia thought it likely that the situation was somewhere in between these two extremes, but they truly had no way of telling.

Lyanna didn't actually believe he could be dead; after all, she'd seen him in visions with their son. One time, she spent half a night worrying that this had been merely meant to show her who the father would be, and as it was possible that she was already with child, who was to say that the gods didn't consider his part in things to be done? She couldn't even tell if she was pregnant or not; she'd had her last moon blood just before arriving at Harrenhal, and it wasn't due for another week or so – though she had also heard that travel could upset the schedule, making things even more uncertain.

That aside, however, their time at Summerhall was a surprisingly peaceful; even enjoyable. She got to know her companions better, learning that Lady Ashara had a love of falconry, a lovely singing voice – and knew Ned far better than Lyanna would have expected. Sometime while she had been occupied with her own troubles at Harrenhal, the two seemed to have become quite close. How had she not seen this?

Ser Arthur, meanwhile, spent much time guarding them from a danger that didn't seem to manifest, but would occasionally sit with them as well. He had many a tale to entertain them with, though she thought he might be downplaying some of his deeds: while his actions in the Kingswood and duel against the Smiling Knight were clearly legendary amongst the other men, Ser Arthur preferred to speak of tourneys he'd narrowly lost (usually against Rhaegar). During one of the conversations she had with the other women while waiting to fall asleep, Lady Ashara confided in her and Elia that she believed her brother had changed ever since his fight against the outlaws.

Lady Dacey, though initially suspicious, warmed to the Dornish quickly. She got on well with the guards, besting some of them when they were sparring, and was more accustomed to living without luxury than the other highborn women; her House's keep being a far cry from the large castles they'd grown up in.

Living in the near-wilderness wasn't the only thing that took some getting used to. As most of their guards and supplies had come from Dorne, the same counted for their food. They ate bread that was flat and cooked on hot stones, olives, crumbly white cheese kept in brine, and dates stuffed with almonds – or, on one memorable occasion, wrapped in thinly-sliced bacon and then roasted. While Lyanna found all of that delicious, she struggled with the way other dishes felt like they were burning her mouth, particularly some of the stews the soldiers would make.

And then, then there were the snakes. A slithering mass of them was kept in a wooden cage and the men wouldn't handle them without chainmail gloves, as apparently they were venomous, and Elia told her that the most dangerous ones also tasted best – although the men seemed more concerned for the chickens than for themselves. Lyanna was surprised to find that the snakes actually tasted quite good, though she had no idea how the Dornish women could eat around the bones so gracefully.

On their fourth day, they taught each other dances. “Well, I can see how this would help keep warm on a cold northern night”, Lady Ashara said after Lady Dacey and Lyanna had shown her the fast-paced steps and jumps to the most popular dance in the North – which was nothing like the fashionable southern numbers, but likely both ancient and of common origin. “I am quite out of breath.”

“There is not much need to keep warm in Winterfell”, Lyanna remarked, beginning to grow slightly annoyed at the assumption that her home was perpetually freezing. “The hot springs heat the entire castle.”

“Yes, Winterfell is warm and cozy”, Lady Dacey said. They were in what had once been a splendid garden, though the flowerbeds were now as overgrown as the fountains and the dragon heads on what was left of the walls. “I cannot say the same for any place on Bear Island, unless you are standing next to a fire. We like a dance that leaves the blood boiling.”

“Our lady of Dayne should show you a Dornish one, then.” Elia hadn't participated, feeling too large to do much jumping, and was sitting on a fallen column, eating chickpea paste topped with stewed dragon peppers. She seemed to have a perpetual craving for the most spicy of foods. “I can imagine some of our steps would heat many a northern heart, and more.”

Ashara sighed. “There is no music, and I am not dressed the right way. As such, Your Grace, my Lady Dacey, you must simply pretend that we are on a terrace in Sunspear, or perhaps a desert palace in the middle of the night, and that I am wearing silk instead of – this.” They were all in plain gowns of wool or linen, since this was hardly the time to dress in their finest.

She undid the simple braid she'd worn her hair in, stood up straight, and stretched out her arms. What followed made Lyanna's eyes grow wide. Until then, the idea of any highborn lady moving in such a way for everyone to see would've never entered her mind. Instead of only her arms and legs, Lady Ashara's entire body was in motion – particularly the hips, in an incredibly suggestive way. Her limbs, meanwhile, would strike out in a near-threatening manner. It wasn't dissimilar from the way the snakes would snap at their handlers.

When she was done, Lady Dacey clapped with a wide grin on her face, and Lyanna joined in, quite impressed. This dance had been so – _daring._ “Lady Ashara”, Dacey said while the Dornishwoman reacted to the praise with a slight shrug, trying to get her hair back out of her face, “if you truly wish to win over Lord Eddard, show him this.”

“Oh, by the gods”, Lyanna said, and had to laugh. “I am not sure that is a good idea. Although -” Even trying to imagine his face was impossible. “In fact, please do. At the very least, it would amuse me.”

Lady Ashara was blushing, and apparently needed to really focus on braiding her hair again. “I can see how it might be a bit much for Lord Eddard -”

“What would?”, Ser Arthur interrupted, having just entered the garden. “I am beginning to feel like I am missing something.”

Lady Ashara barely flinched. “Dornish food, brother mine. Princess Lyanna is beginning to take a liking to our fare.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, and slightly shook his head. “There is a rider from King's Landing.”

Elia was on her feet more quickly than Lyanna had seen her move in days, and she, too, forgot all about dances. _Finally_, they'd find out what had happened.

As it turned out, it wasn't much. The man had been sent on the day of Rhaegar's arrival at the capital, and couldn't tell them what had happened since.

What he did know, however, was worrying. “Twenty thousand dragons”, Elia said after they'd dismissed him, standing in the ballroom with Lyanna and Ser Arthur. “I could imagine that many men would risk their lives for such a reward.”

“Undoubtedly.” The knight was looking towards the broken windows as if he could see all the way to King's Landing. “He is well-protected, of course. Many guards, the other lords, Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan. If some sellsword decided to try his luck, he would be dead long before even coming close to Rhaegar.”

“Still. What if it is not just a common sellsword?” Elia sighed warily, then turned to Lyanna. “Should, gods forbid, anything happen to Rhaegar – by which I mean: should he die”, she swallowed hard, “then you and I will travel further south, to Dorne. I do not know what the other kingdoms would do, but we do know that Dorne and the North are committed to you and me respectively.”

Ser Arthur shook his head. “Rhaegar will not die. At the very least, they will not have had time to hire assassins from the East.”

Lyanna looked around the ballroom and walked towards the middle, between the altar and the seven-pointed star. She missed her gods; wanted nothing more than a weirwood – but she wasn't entirely without a connection to them.

Aware of the other two watching her, she sat cross-legged on the floor and unfastened the pouch from her belt. It was beginning to grow dark outside.

“Does the moon ever shine through here?”, she asked, pointing at her spot.

“Just there.” Elia took a few steps towards her. “Rhaegar believes it gives him dragon dreams.”

Dragon dreams; green dreams, it was all the same, she decided. There were places of magic.

“I do not know if this will tell us anything”, Lyanna had to admit, “but it is worth a try. Rhaegar mentioned he had some kind of symbol, did he not?”

“A sigil, yes.” Elia's eyes darted over to the chests at the side of the ballroom. “Do you need me to draw it?”

“Please.” While Elia went to find a piece of chalk, Lyanna opened up the pouch, sinking her fingers into the runes and feeling the bone and the weirwood sap she'd used to paint them. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine being somewhere else – a grove in the middle of a dense forest, a heart tree's face before her.

In her mind's eye, Elia wasn't drawing the sigil on a stone floor with chalk, but using a stick to carve it into soft earth and moss.

_Gods of this land_, she thought, _North or not; all of Westeros is yours. If you can hear me from here, if you can reach me, then I ask you to give power to these runes. Work through them to reveal to me the fate of my husband; the Dragon Prince. _

She opened the pouch as well as her eyes, grasped a handful of tunes, and let them scatter onto Rhaegar's sigil.

Elia had drawn something approaching a spiral containing Valyrian glyphs, with three stylised dragon heads on top. Nine runes had fallen onto it, though four were upside-down.

As was the rule, Lyanna removed those four without looking. They represented things she wasn't meant to know.

“What does it mean?” Elia was kneeling before her, looking at the sigil with curiosity.

“I am not sure”, Lyanna said. “It depends on what _this_ all means, I suppose.” One rune had landed on each of the heads of the dragon, and she pointed at the middle one. “Does this stand for him? It is the Magnar rune, symbolising a ruler – lord or king, I assume it would pertain to a Lord Regent as well.”

“Well, that is good, is it not?” Elia pointed at the other heads. “Which are these, then? You and I?”

“I could not say. This is Barak; fertility and the future. And Ednos; trust and faith and friendship. They could stand for either of us, or perhaps they are merely things he needs in order to _become_ a ruler?”

Elia hummed. “I think I prefer visions. As difficult as those are to interpret, they are still somewhat more clear than this.”

She could hardly argue with that. “You would need to find me a weirwood, then.”

“The nearest I can think of are in the rainwood, from what I have heard. I can try the dragonglass – but what are these other two?”

Lyanna looked down, and didn't like what she saw. The centre of the spiral contained symbols she did not know, though one looked recognisable. “Is that a crown?”

“Yes. It is not Valyrian, in fact; they had no kings in the Freehold, and the glyph for rulership was a whip. As you can imagine, he did not wish to maintain that. The crown represents him as a royal.”

“And it has the Korrag rune on it. Danger, discord, and enmity – but I do not know if this is a true warning, or merely something we are already aware of.”

Elia sighed, clearly frustrated. “And the last?”

It was on the spiral, though not in the middle. It was also the worst of them. “Wegan”, Lyanna said. “Pain and suffering. It is not death, however.”

“Oh.” Elia's eyes met hers. “_Not_ death? Are you certain?”

“There are two runes for death. This is not one of them.”

After gaining her permission with a glance, Elia picked up the rune, examining it closely. “Pain can be mended”, she said, “as long as one lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter. It took me about 3 weeks to write because I didn't know what should happen in it. So since it's mostly just nothingness/filler, I decided to upload quickly so we can all move on to the next one, which will probably be up on Sunday.
> 
> Dorne is a much more sexually liberal place than anywhere in the real world would've been for a very long time – even today, tbh, if we consider that some of the women are described as wearing dresses that are actually just completely sheer, with nothing or only jewellery underneath.  
I originally thought the Dornish dance should've been like a flamenco, but that's still a bit too stiff, so I'd see it essentially as an [Andalusian fusion style that led from bellydancing to flamenco](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uD7ywIfo_xg) – which is both sufficiently sensual and imo works well for the vague mediterranean fusion I understand Dorne as.


	27. 04/07/281 – Rhaegar

_King's Landing, a week after Prince Rhaegar's arrival at the gates_

“Reports have reached us that Ser Stannis is sailing towards Dragonstone”, Jon Arryn announced, “while Lord Velaryon has been joined by the rest of his fleet at Driftmark and will be ready to engage him, should Your Grace so wish.”

“Very good.” They had watched the ships depart from the capital's harbour. As they made up a large part of the royal fleet, the king had clearly been unable to stop them. “He may bide his time. I will not see Dragonstone taken by the Baratheons, but we will let Ser Stannis get comfortable before trapping him between the castle and the sea – should it even come this far.”

He still had hopes of avoiding large-scale bloodshed, even if the situation had already claimed a number of lives. After all, their spies within the city told them that the mood was turning decidedly against his father. The singers they'd dispatched had done their part in that, though not only through song: two had been arrested and executed, which the people of King's Landing didn't appreciate. One had been well-known and beloved for many years.

While Lord Arryn nodded, Ser Brynden pointed towards the map. “When will we enter? We now know there won't be resistance from the smallfolk, and I could imagine that much of the castle would be glad to be rid of the king as well. The longer we wait, the more people he burns.”

“We need the City Watch first”, Jon said. “The question is whether we can turn Lord Manly, or if we will need to remove him.”

“In all honesty.” Oberyn, who didn't enjoy waiting for anything, was drumming his fingers on the table. “Stokeworth is replaceable. He could be the first to go once we are inside the Red Keep, and then the gold cloaks will obey whoever appears to be the preferable option. Which would be us.”

“My lord”, Eddard Stark said, aghast, “you cannot seriously advocate murdering a man for the crime of obeying his king.”

Oberyn waved the objection away. “He should be obeying the Lord Regent. What is the death of one man if it can give us the city, and end the daily executions of dozens?”

From what they knew, Aerys' list of real and imagined enemies was never empty, especially since Prince Lewyn had fled with Viserys. They weren't actually sure how many of his small council were still alive, nor if there were many servants left.

“It is my hope”, Rhaegar cut in, “that Lord Manly will come to his senses, in which case he will keep both his life and his position. If not, I am planning to imprison him, install a new commander, and send him to the Wall once all is done.”

That seemed to allay Lord Eddard's concerns, though he doubted that Oberyn approved. Rhaegar himself was relatively sure that Stokeworth was more likely to respond to intimidation than legal arguments, which meant that perhaps, he should at least be made to believe that his execution was imminent when given the choice.

Not that they could really do much in that regard while they remained outside the walls.

Mace Tyrell was about to say something likely useless when Ser Oswell strode in, bowed. “Your Grace, my lords. The prisoner has died.”

That was unfortunate. In the morning, the fourth assassin in as many days had tried to sneak into their camp. The first three had been slain by overzealous guards, so they had put out an order to try to imprison the next who would come, hoping to gather some information. That hadn't been possible without injuring him, however, and the blood loss seemed to have been too great.

“Bury him with the others”, Rhaegar said. There was a growing collection of graves at the back of their camp. “I have no doubt that more will follow, so let us try to keep them alive for once.”

Twenty-thousand dragons, as it turned out, were too great of an incentive for a common man to pass up, even if it meant needing to sneak inside a heavily guarded encampment containing several highborn lords and three knights of the Kingsguard, and killing the rightful heir to the throne. How they meant to make it out alive with proof of their deed was a mystery to him, just as he didn't understand how they couldn't see that his father was more likely to burn than to reward them.

That night, Rhaegar prayed before going to sleep, as he always did. He spoke to the Father and the Crone more often now than to the Warrior, asking for guidance and, ideally, a vision. He wished he had a piece of dragonglass to gaze into.

He found it difficult to sleep these days. It wasn't only the fear of assassins, although he had started to keep a dagger under his mattress. There were always two Kingsguard on duty while the third one slept – a system made possible by having Viserys stay in Rhaegar's tent.

His brother was one of the matters keeping him awake, even though he wasn't the only thing to worry about. Viserys seemed to have concluded that Rhaegar had no intention of killing him, which was good, but still insisted on being the Prince of Dragonstone. Rhaegar hoped that this wouldn't lead to resentment later on, as Viserys would most likely never hold the title, but who could be sure? He continued to call him a traitor, too, though it was clear that he simply didn't understand many things due to his age. What was more, he still had nightmares.

When the first would-be assassin's body had been lain before him, Rhaegar had begun to understand just how real the threat was. What if one of them succeeded? He could well imagine that Lord Arryn, at the very least, wouldn't pass up on the opportunity – the king could be killed, and Viserys would offer a wonderful chance for the Council of Regents he'd wanted. Once Elia birthed his son, that would be even better: a full sixteen years until majority. Rhaegar was relatively sure that it would go along those lines rather than the entire alliance disintegrating, also because they had to know that the king wouldn't accept their fealty and contrition. They'd either defeat him, or burn.

That was good, as it meant that even if he died, his wives and children would likely be safe, not least because both Dorne and the North had a vested interest in their wellbeing.

However, it would also mean he'd never see them again. Rhaenys and his unborn sons (the gods surely wouldn't permit him to die before Lyanna was with child) would never know their father. He'd never have the chance to truly know Lyanna. The night in the inn would've been the last time he'd held Elia.

At some point into the night, Rhaegar was drawn out of his thoughts by murmuring voices outside. He recognised Ser Barristan and Prince Lewyn, and it was likely time for them to change shifts.

He turned from his back onto his front, trying to ignore their voices as much as Viserys' shifting and muttering from across the tent. He had to sleep at some point.

But then there was another noise, too, that made him open one eye. It almost sounded like –

Someone creeping inside the tent. Rhaegar's eyes flew open as he saw one, then two figures moving in the shadows, and it looked like there was another following.

Everything else happened quickly. Rhaegar sat up and cried out, the figures stood straight in alarm. He pulled his dagger free just as one of the men jumped him, pressing a knife to his throat.

All three Kingsguard were inside now, and Viserys screamed in fear. The man atop Rhaegar was wide-eyed and likely even more scared than himself. He could smell his unwashed stench, could feel his weight – and the blade, most of all, which Rhaegar was desperately trying to hold off.

Gripping the man's wrist with his left hand, he had the dagger in his right. He'd always trained to fight men who were heavily armoured, and was surprised as his own blade sunk into the assassin's side without resistance.

As the man's expression changed from fear to pain and sheer terror, his hold on the knife loosened. Rhaegar acted on pure instinct, turning them around, pulling the dagger free and plunging it into the assassin's chest.

He'd seen men die before, but he'd never killed one himself.

“Your Grace.” Somehow, in that moment he'd foolishly taken to reflect, Ser Barristan had grabbed him by the shoulders and was looking at him with worry. “You are bleeding.”

Rhaegar looked down at his hands, which of course were covered in blood, but why would he be bleeding himself? Behind Barristan, two bodies lay on the ground and Viserys was crying. The two men standing were Ser Oswell and Prince Lewyn, so really, all was fine.

“Where am I blee-”, he began to ask, and then felt the _burning_. His neck was on fire, he was sure.

Barristan pushed away his hands and tore down the neckline of his tunic, and he felt his fingers on the part of him that was in flames. “Very shallow”, the knight announced, voice heavy with relief. “A bandage -”

“It burns”, Rhaegar croaked. The fire spread under his skin, into his jaw and down his collarbone.

Ser Barristan's eyes met his, and the fear was back. “Poison”, the knight said.

They later told him that he'd been unconscious for more than two days. On some level, this irked Rhaegar, as it should really have been three.

He spent the time in a fevered state. There was much pain; the burning that had begun with the cut. Sometimes, he saw himself upon a pyre, screaming in pure agony as wildfire danced around him.

His father was there, laughing maniacally upon the Iron Throne. His hands were full of blood as well, but not because he'd just killed an assassin. He laughed and laughed and cut himself upon the throne a thousand times, not even noticing how it rejected him.

Through the pain and the green hue of the flames and the terrible sound of his father's laughter, Rhaegar saw those before them. Aegon the Conqueror had forged this throne, but he and his wives looked upon Aerys in disgust. Rhaegar could only hope it would impale him, as it had Maegor the Cruel.

He sometimes saw the dying eyes of the man who'd come to kill him. He'd always thought that once it came to it, it would be in some sort of battle. A minor rebellion, or outlaws; or an execution.

This had been no battle, and no sentence had been spoken. Not that it mattered – it had been one life against the other.

The king, this monstrous creature who had no right to the title, no right to their _name_ in his degeneracy, kept on laughing. Rhaegar was sure that he'd laugh the same if he had his head presented to him in the throne room, right before burning his killers alive so he could muster the arousal to rape his mother.

His father wanted him dead, and he'd come close to succeeding this time. Never before had Rhaegar wished for the same fate for Aerys. Kinslaying was the gravest sin of all, but now, he saw himself stabbing his father instead of the assassin, and felt immense relief as the laughter _stopped_.

Aerys wanted his death, and he'd made Viserys his successor. That meant excluding Rhaegar's own children, and he had no doubt that his father would have them killed as well if he could, and his wives too. Rhaenys smelled Dornish, he'd said in disgust; he didn't think her to be who she really was: a princess of the highest birth, and his blood. Rhaegar would gladly commit the greatest sin a thousand times over if it meant protecting her.

At his first wedding, that snivelling coward Staunton had given Rhaegar a tapestry depicting how his father lorded over them all. It was buried deep in some chest somewhere, but Rhaegar could see it clear as day now, Aerys' face so large and high. In one of his fever dreams, killing his father didn't make him stop – instead, his eyes turned a terrible blue, the colour he'd seen after consuming shade of the evening in Summerhall.

Summerhall. In the last, particularly terrifying dream, he saw his wives' dead, dismembered bodies there. Aerys was laughing over those, too, until Rhaegar killed him once more.

When he came to, he felt disoriented; thought for a moment that he might still be at Summerhall. Rhaegar jerked up, searching for a weapon as he sensed someone move beside him.

“No”, Oberyn said firmly, and pressed him back down. “Relax.”

That sounded right, he thought, if it came from his good-brother. He didn't want Elia dead.

Rhaegar groaned when the memories of the attack came back to him in full. “Gods”, he said, struggling to speak with his dry mouth. “What happened?”

Oberyn held a cup to his lips, and Rhaegar drank. It was water, and it tasted wonderful.

There were deep, dark rings under his friend's eyes. “Basilisk venom”, he said. “It would have been enough to kill you, had Lewyn not come to get me straight away.” He took away the cup, to Rhaegar's chagrin.

“How?”, he asked. “How did these men have access to it?” It didn't make sense. A common man coming to kill him for the reward would've needed an immediate result, but a poisoned blade was an insurance in case the attack didn't succeed completely.

“Well, if I had to guess, I would say they got it from a maester.” Oberyn turned to a table full of vials, pouches, and magical implements, while Rhaegar tried to blink away his remaining dizziness. “All three Kingsguard recognised the men, once we looked at them in daylight – which was two days ago, if you'd like to know that. They were guardsmen in the Red Keep.”

“Ah.” So these ones had been sent straight from the castle, instead of hoping for some sellsword to manage the task. If Pycelle had anything to do with this, Rhaegar thought, he'd at least have a good excuse to be rid of him once he took control. He likely wouldn't be missed by anyone. “What has happened since?”

“There were more.” Oberyn had mixed together some sort of paste, and came back to sit at his bedside. “One in each night, though they did not make it far. Stretch your neck.”

Rhaegar did so only reluctantly, though he didn't experience the pain he expected. “The cut itself is nothing. It did not even need a bandage, and without the poison, it would have healed without any interference. Like this, however”, he began spreading the paste along what had to be the cut, “it has left quite a mark. Do not be surprised when you see yourself in a mirror.”

He frowned. “Am I disfigured?”

“Well.” Oberyn hummed. “You need not worry for your pretty face, but your neck looks quite dramatic. Deep purple lines along the scar and the veins. I would recommend high collars from now on.”

“It could be worse, then. It would have been disappointing to survive this with nothing to show for it.”

“I see you are feeling better already.” Oberyn had finished applying the salve. “You are not well, however; do not forget that. You have not eaten anything solid for close to three days. While I would recommend that you show yourself soon, you might want to have a meal and a bath before.”

He did feel weak and nauseous. And there was something he still didn't know: “How did they even get as far as my tent?”

Disdain was clear on Oberyn's face. “They bribed a few of Tyrell's guardsmen, promising to share the reward. The guards have been flogged and hanged.”

“I see.” He slowly sat up, aching all over. “Viserys?”

“It appears that their mission was not only to kill you, but also to return him to the city – I suppose it was not difficult to guess that he would be here. He is fine, and now more terrified for you than of you.” He handed him more water. “Your Kingsguard, meanwhile, have taken it worst. None of them will ever forgive themselves for letting the assassins get that far.”

“I can see that.” Rhaegar raised his hand to run it through his hair, and found it stiff with sweat, as well as some blood. “A bath and a meal, as you said. And then I want everyone in here, so they may all see I have regained consciousness.” Someone else came to mind. “In fact, send Jon in first. He would be terribly offended if I did not see him before the rest.”

“He would be.” Oberyn stood, then hesitated. “One last thing. What did you dream?”

“Was I speaking?” Now, in his tent and awake, the seven hells he'd resided in not long ago seemed distant.

“Muttering, once in a while. You spoke of burning.”

“I was burning.” Rhaegar looked down onto his hands, which had clearly been washed at some point, and decided that Oberyn of all people could be told. “I dreamed of killing my father.”

His friend nodded, completely undisturbed. “Will you?”

“I cannot be seen as a kinslayer.” When he thought of the king, the rage came back. “But I want to.”

Jon barged in as soon as he'd heard, just as Rhaegar was eating the blandest meal they could think of (a plain, watery porridge). He fell to his knees when he saw him, tears in his eyes, and Rhaegar thought that he should probably appreciate his devotion more than he did.

Then, it was time to establish to the lords that he was still very much alive and himself. As it turned out, Jon Arryn had taken over control while he'd been unconscious, as he was meant to do as Hand.

While he'd been gone, they'd heard of two new developments: First, the wedding of Brandon Stark and Catelyn Tully had taken place – after Stark had been challenged to a duel by Lord Hoster's ward and won, apparently. Second, an elaborate wheelhouse had been seen leaving Casterly Rock and travelling down the goldroad. Nobody knew what this meant yet, though Cersei Lannister was assumed to be inside. This, they would need to keep an eye on.

Otherwise, most of their efforts had centred around keeping him alive and not letting rumours of his death spread too far – even though they existed, of course.

It was easy enough to disprove those. When Rhaegar had bathed, finding numerous sigils of the Smith painted all over him, he'd examined his neck. Truly, the discolouring looked horrific against his pale skin: a thick purple line surrounded by smaller ones spreading out, following the blood vessels. Oberyn said it would've covered his whole body if he hadn't acted as quickly as he had.

Rhaegar found that he didn't mind. It was a sign that someone had tried to kill him and failed, and made him look more fearsome, as much as it was possible for him to appear intimidating at all. He just hoped it wouldn't be too off-putting to his wives.

He had a rider sent out to them in order to let them know that he lived, and left his tent for the first time in days. He'd considered wearing his armour, but as he was still aware that he didn't want to be seen as an attacker on the city, he opted for his normal clothes instead – boots, breeches, doublet, cape, circlet.

All the assassins who'd come to kill him as well as the guards they'd bribed had been buried at the back of the camp, but now he ordered to have them exhumed and moved to the front. “This cannot go on”, he told the lords. “There must at least be some sort of warning to any who would come after them.”

Nobody had voiced an objection. There was a palpable sense of relief in the camp when he showed himself, even though news of his recovery must have preceded his reemergence by hours.

After accepting well-wishes from everyone who saw him, Rhaegar mounted his horse. Flanked by Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan, he rode towards the front, where the assassins and traitors were being buried anew.

There were many gold cloaks on the city walls, and far behind, a column of smoke rising up into the sky from the Red Keep. Rhaegar rode far enough so they could see him clearly, but stayed out of range of any arrows or crossbows. He was pleased to note that there was a slight breeze, letting his hair, cape, and Targaryen banner move with the wind for added effect.

Then he remained there, looking at the gates, while graves were dug behind him. He saw Lord Manly's head emerge behind the battlements, and raised his hand in greeting. The man disappeared.

“This will not go on”, he told his knights, looking at the walls his father was hiding behind. “We will enter this city, and soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I'm _so_ done with your shit, dad.”
> 
> Rhaegar's dreams in this chapter aren't magical/prophetic, they're just about his state of mind.


	28. 10/07/281 – Elia

_Summerhall, six days after Prince Rhaegar's recovery from an assassination attempt_

Elia had spent the last three days on her knees, praying to whoever might hear – the Smith, Father, Warrior, Crone; the gods of old Valyria, and Mother Rhoyne as well. It seemed to be the only thing she could do.

Except for preparing their departure, of course, should the worst come to pass. Horses and supplies were ready to take them down to the Stone Way and then Wyl, where Doran had promised a ship would wait, as long as the Dondarrions didn't intercept them near Blackhaven.

When the rider had reached them with Oberyn's note, hastily scribbled in Rhoynish, she'd felt as if she'd been poisoned herself, and her throat was closing shut. Rhaegar had been attacked with a poisoned blade, and her brother would do all he could to save him, but wasn't certain if he'd succeed.

To add to the bad news, the rider had confessed that he wasn't entirely sure he hadn't been followed. That, too, was deeply worrying.

Still, there was hope, as she'd told Lyanna and Ashara and Ser Arthur and herself a hundred times. The gods surely couldn't permit him to die, and what was more, Oberyn was half a maester, a sorcerer, and an expert on poisons. If anyone could save her husband, it was him.

And, as she thought again and again, Lyanna's runes had shown them pain and suffering – but not death.

When they heard shouts that a rider was approaching the ruin, Elia dropped the chalice she'd been about to drink out of, containing a potion that might bring her closer to the Smith. Her face jerked up to meet Lyanna's eyes across the ballroom, where the other woman had been studying her runes.

This would be it, now. It could be news from King's Landing – doom or deliverance – just as much as it could be a scout sent by the king or Lord Robert, trying to stake out if they were here in truth (since, as they had been told days before the news of Rhaegar's poisoning, the Baratheon fleet was sailing for Dragonstone).

They ran outside the ballroom, where Elia arrived thoroughly out of breath. Lyanna was about to storm out the gatehouse, but before Elia could hold her back, Lady Dacey was there to do the same. The glamour wouldn't protect them if they left the boundaries.

Not that it was necessary, because she quickly recognised the rider as one of Rhaegar's men. Ser Arthur went out to greet him and was given the news even before the man had dismounted.

When he turned around to face them, he smiled. Elia felt her knees give and was caught by Ashara, who'd just arrived on the scene.

Rhaegar lived, that much was clear. Thank the Seven and all the others, she thought, feeling relief like she'd never experienced before.

“He has recovered in full”, Ser Arthur announced as he stepped back through the gatehouse. “A scar, but nothing more.”

She untangled herself from Ashara. “Scars are nothing. What now?”

The rider, following Ser Arthur, handed her an unopened parchment. It was sealed without a sigil, but she recognised Rhaegar's hand, as well as the secret cipher he used.

“He wrote that he means to enter the Red Keep as soon as possible”, she told Lyanna, Ser Arthur, Ashara, and Lady Dacey after she'd burned the letter and convened them in the bedchamber. “Which means that he could have already done so, by now, though I could imagine that he would try tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?” Lyanna looked very tired, and Elia could imagine that she wasn't any better herself. They hadn't truly slept.

“It is the Feast Day of Our Father Above. Usually a day to make judgements, but if he succeeds, he will be able to claim that the Father Himself was with him.”

Lady Dacey was watching the rest of the parchment burn in the hearth. “How will it even be possible for them to enter the castle? I have never seen the Red Keep, but I would imagine it is well-fortified, and the prince has – what, a hundred men with him? At most.”

“They are not planning an assault”, Ser Arthur explained. “The Red Keep is riddled with hidden passages, some of which lead outside the city walls. Rhaegar knows many of them, perhaps more than most others.”

Elia was sure that the knight wished he was there – as did she. Anyone was safer with the Sword of the Morning by their side, which of course was the reason he was here instead. Still, had Ser Arthur been with Rhaegar, the would-be assassins might have never made it as far as they had.

“And then what?” Lyanna was pacing. “Will they just be able to take control by being inside?” Her eyes went wide. “Will _Ned_ join him?”

“Is he good with a sword?”, Elia asked, sitting on the bed with an alarmed Ashara and trying to exude a calming presence. “And, even more, will he insist on coming along?”

“He is decent, I suppose.” Lyanna and Ashara exchanged a look. “And of course he will insist. Honour and all.”

Lady Dacey nodded along. “He is bound to fight with his good-brother. But still, assuming they can get inside without being hacked to pieces, will that be it? They are there, and they have won?”

“Essentially”, Elia said, and Ser Arthur agreed. “They will need to take the king into custody. This poses the question of how my sworn brothers will react, of course, but at the very least we know that they will not harm Rhaegar.”

Lyanna stopped her pacing. “And those with him?”

“I cannot promise the same, though Rhaegar has Ser Barristan, Ser Oswell, and Prince Lewyn at his side.” The news of her uncle's escape with Viserys had reached them just before those of the poisoning. “The Sers Gerold, Jaime, and Jonothor are inside the castle. If it came to a fight, three against three...” The knight looked pained at the prospect. “I believe Rhaegar's side would win. Ser Barristan is my equal in skill, while Ser Jaime still has much to learn, and the Lord Commander is not as young as he once was.”

Neither was Barristan Selmy, but there was a reason Gerold Hightower was called the White Bull.

“There is no guarantee that it will come to this at all”, Elia remarked, attempting to calm them all. Deep down, she realised with a pang of guilt, she could not bring herself to worry for anyone but her husband and her brother. “The Kingsguard _should_ be obeying Rhaegar. He was once Ser Gerold's squire, and there is no reason to believe that any of them would prefer the king – especially as Aerys will likely order Rhaegar's death, while he will only command them to take his father into custody.”

“I suppose all we can do is wait for the news?” Lady Dacey didn't seem pleased at the prospect.

Elia sighed. “Yes. As we have ever since we arrived.”

After that, all of their companions agreed that both she and Lyanna were in dire need of sleep. This was evidently true, and so Elia did her best to get some rest.

She woke a few hours later, finding that Lyanna was lying next to her on the large bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Do you worry for your brother?”, she asked.

Lyanna blinked, having just noticed that Elia was awake. “Of course. For him, for Rhaegar, for everything. I wish I was there.”

She turned to her side so she could face the other woman, seeing the exhaustion on her pale face. “There would be nothing you could do.” That being said, Elia herself wanted little more than to be with the men, so that she might at least give them counsel.

“I know. It is still frustrating. And Ned -” She sighed. “He is no fool, and he has never done anything rash in his life, but I still cannot help but be afraid for him. What if the remaining Kingsguard _do_ decide to fight them?”

“I do not think they will.” She'd become increasingly certain of that – bar Ser Jaime acting on his father's orders, since they, quite terrifyingly, had no idea what Tywin Lannister had been up to all this time. But he was only one. “I am not prone to misplaced optimism”, she said, hoping she was right, “and I am quite sure that they will follow Rhaegar. In that case, anyone who is clearly loyal to him will be fine.”

She was trying to subtly find out if there was any chance of Lord Eddard turning on them in favour of his old friend Robert, but it seemed to wholly fly over Lyanna's head. “That should not be a problem, then. Ned is entirely incapable of betrayal.”

“I could imagine that Lord Baratheon would see that differently”, she said, even at risk of offending Lyanna.

But the other woman only gave a derisive snort. “It was he who acted dishonourably. Gods, can you imagine if I had had to wed that man?”

At this stage, it was difficult to do. “During the first few days at Harrenhal, we were quite anxious to find out how you felt for Lord Robert. You seemed to take a liking to him initially.”

“I felt terrible about what I knew had to happen.” Lyanna turned to her as well now. “For him, and for you, Your Grace. I still do.”

If there was anything Elia didn't want, it was pity. “Well, Your Grace – as our lord husband has told you on your wedding night, we cannot spend forever apologising. This situation is complicated and difficult, but it is what it is, and we must simply make the best of it.”

“I suppose that is true, but it is still very strange. The two of you have such a strong bond, and here I am, intruding where I do not belong.” Elia opened her mouth, thinking she should say something reassuring, but Lyanna continued. “Not that I should burden you with my insecurities like that. On another note – I have been thinking about my past visions again, and about something I had not paid much attention to before.”

That was a rapid change of topic, but Elia was glad for it. “And what was that?”

“The woman.” Lyanna was looking at the pillow between them, where Ashara usually slept. “I think I have mentioned her before – occasionally, I would see a young lady by my son's side when he fought the Others. Or a princess, I suppose, as she is clearly a Targaryen. I believe she might be your daughter.”

“Rhaenys?” Elia shook her head, not wanting to entertain the thought that her little girl would ever have to face such horrors. “What do you mean by her being clearly a Targaryen?”

“She looks like one. Silver hair and all -”

“Oh.” That was a relief. “Rhaenys has black hair. She looks like me.”

“But then -” Lyanna turned onto her back again. “Who is the woman in my visions? You are having a son, I will have a son; nothing points to a fourth child – and if the gods are showing her to me, she must be important.”

A thought came to Elia's mind that was so bizarre that it made her laugh. “Just watch Rhaegar find out that he will need a third wife.”

“By the gods.” Lyanna giggled. “That would be something. Unless -”

She shook her head. “No.” The image of Cersei Lannister in a maiden cloak had never quite left her, and as much as she appreciated the absurdity of that possibility, Elia did not believe it. “Three and three and three, as all the gods keep telling us. It is possible that Rhaegar will be one of three siblings. The queen is still young enough.” Though she'd never thought that his potential sister would have much bearing on the prophecy.

“Well, that would make more sense”, Lyanna admitted. “What is she like, anyway? Queen Rhaella. I have hardly ever heard anyone speak of her.”

“It would be difficult for them to do, considering that she has barely left her chambers in – I am not sure how many years.” She rolled onto her back as well, watching the ceiling. This room hadn't been destroyed by the tragedy, but some soot remained. “Our good-mother's situation is very sad, Lyanna. She is a kind and demure woman wed to a monster of a man, and he mistreats her horribly. Still, she obeys, not only out of fear but also out of duty.”

“That is awful. At least she will be free of him soon.”

A knock sounded on the door, followed by Ashara, Lady Dacey, and a mouthwatering smell.

“Chickpea stew”, Ashara announced, both women carrying two bowls each. “Is it hot?”, Elia asked, sitting up.

“Yours is.” Ashara handed her the bowl, and she saw that the flat bread laid on top rested next to an additional spoonful of dragon pepper paste, which was excellent.

Elia had missed spice. Once Rhaegar reigned in King's Landing, she'd introduce Dornish food to court.

Her rest in the afternoon hadn't given her a great deal of energy, and Elia found herself growing tired soon after supper. She wasn't the only one, as Lyanna and Ashara seemed to feel the same.

Before going to bed, she saw Lyanna thoughtfully look down on herself in her shift. “Well”, she said, “my moon blood still has not come, though I feel the same way I do when it does.”

“That could mean anything”, Elia replied. “For me, the early signs of being with child and those of my blood coming have largely been the same, useless as that is.”

“You have travelled far as well.” Ashara was brushing out her hair next to the hearth. “It changes my schedule every time. At this rate, I am not even sure when to expect it anymore.”

Lyanna climbed into bed, covering herself with one of their countless sheets. “So this is another thing we cannot know, for now. Not even the gods are showing me anything.”

Elia suspected that she felt a bit lost, so far away from all her trees – even though she had somewhat predicted Rhaegar's poisoning, if only vaguely.

She lit sandalwood incense, as she did every night, and then went to lie down herself. “I have prayed to the Crone day and night, but seen nothing”, she said, and then did it again. Trying was the only thing she could do.

The night didn't bring any unusual dreams, but the next morning proved to be more informative.

Elia woke up to the sound of retching, soon followed by a putrid smell. “Oh, gods”, she heard Lyanna moan, and sat up. Looking across Ashara, who seemed both displeased and determined to continue sleeping, Elia saw her sitting on the edge of the bed. _“Gods”_, she repeated. “I am so sorry. I did not think – well, at least it didn't land _on_ the bed.”

It still smelled awful, not that Lyanna could truly be blamed for this. Elia was just glad they didn't have carpets. “Does this happen to you often?”, she asked.

“Never.” With another groan, Lyanna stood, gingerly stepping around what Elia assumed to be the puddle of her sick. “I mean, not _never_, but it has been a number of years.”

She hummed, while Ashara mumbled something incoherent into her pillow. “Have you eaten anything we have not?”

“No.” Lyanna opened the door and poked her head through. “Lady Dacey!”, Elia heard her hiss. “I'm sorry. Could you find us a maid or someone?” They didn't have many servants at Summerhall, but she could understand that Lyanna would be reluctant to have one of the men clean it up.

Elia gently shook Ashara. “How are you feeling?”

“_Sleeping”_, came the answer. She'd always been difficult to wake.

“Are you feeling ill at all?” Her friend shook her head, face pressed into the pillow.

Elia watched Lyanna, trying to discern anything from what she could make out of the shape of her body under the shift. Not that this would tell them anything for now.

She herself had never experienced vomiting in the beginnings of either of her pregnancies, but it was a well-known sign. “When was your moon blood meant to have come?”, she asked.

“About a week ago. But as we said, that does not need to mean anything.” Lyanna sat down on the bed.

“No”, Elia agreed. “It does not _need_ to, but it might. And if you got sick – I think it is very likely that you are with child.”

Lyanna stared at her for a moment. “You know, for all the time I have spent knowing that this had to happen, I still cannot quite believe that it could be true.”

Neither could Elia. If it _was_ true, however, then it was just one more reason to pray that all else would go well. A hasty escape wouldn't be made any easier by both of them being pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Ser Barristan is my equal in skill” - can't entirely remember where but I'm very sure GRRM said that Arthur and Barristan would be tied when fighting with normal swords, but Arthur would win with Dawn the huge magical supersword – hence “in skill”.
> 
> “The Kingsguard should be obeying Rhaegar.” I mean. Not necessarily, I guess; the whole situation is unprecedented. But that also means that Team Rhaegar can argue this.


	29. 11/07/281 – Rhaegar

_King's Landing, three hours after midnight on the Feast Day of Our Father Above_

“You should not have to wade through shit to take your rightful place”, Jon said as they walked along a path leading to the cliffs.

“I will admit it is not the most elegant approach.” There were worse ways to get inside the castle; some which meant actually crossing quite a long distance in the sewers. Jon was being dramatic. “Now, _quiet, _and careful. This path is treacherous, and if any of us fall, it will be loud enough to rouse the Watch.”

A very narrow way was leading upwards, no wider than a foot, and they had to file in one line. Ser Barristan, Oberyn, and Jon were in front of him, while Prince Lewyn, Ser Oswell, Eddard Stark, and Brynden Tully followed, joined by two dozen of their best men. They wouldn't be enough for a true fight within the castle, of course, but a greater number was difficult to smuggle in – and Rhaegar still thought that he might be able to avoid an actual fight completely (or, if not, be able to creep back outside).

This was it. In truth, all hinged on their success this night, and he could only hope that he would be proved right in his predictions. Rhaegar wondered if he'd overlooked anything; if Elia might have counselled him to act differently – but she wasn't here, and most likely had only just heard of his recovery. At least, none of the men with him had thought his plan foolish, and he was quite sure that Lord Arryn (who, due to age, had wisely agreed not to join them), at least, would have told him otherwise.

The path brought them to an entrance in the cliffs, just wide enough for a man to crawl through before it led into a narrow tunnel, tall enough to stand in and wide enough for two to pass through at once. They entered one by one, all wearing the uniform of his household guard with the sigils removed – light black armour, which was ideal for what they were doing. The Kingsguard weren't wearing their white cloaks, and he had donned a hood to keep the light from catching in any strands of hair that could escape his helmet. It was a cloudy night as well, with no moon or stars to betray them. Rhaegar was quite sure that the Father had heard his prayers.

Now, he was at the front, as the only one who knew the way. They carried no torches, and he had to occasionally whisper warnings, as Maegor had riddled the passages with traps. Soon, they reached the sewers, the stench of which made him gag.

Still, they pressed on. They didn't have to wade through it for long before they reached steep stairs, and he heard someone behind stumble, though not fall. Another set followed while they went up towards the castle, and now the tunnel was dressed in stone instead of earth and timber, indicating its closeness.

He was concerned that they might be too loud, as the sound of their steps rung in his ears, light as they may be. Then again, they were still far down in the underbelly of the Red Keep, and he didn't think that anyone else knew of the passage. That snake Varys might have, but he was no longer there to foil him. He could only hope that he wasn't walking towards the same fate.

Eventually, they reached the top of the second set of stairs – and with that, they were inside the castle, in a way. They walked on and on along a narrow corridor until they got to a wider hall. Somewhere here, there was a set of stairs that could be revealed if one pressed a certain stone, but that wouldn't bring them to where Rhaegar wanted to go. Instead, he found the door leading into a large, cavernous room that was used to store all kinds of unneeded items.

This was the last place they could expect to be in undetected, so Rhaegar waited until all were assembled. Once the last man had come through the door, he said a quick prayer, and then Ser Barristan was the first to climb through a window leading out.

They didn't encounter anyone for a while, which was strange. As they climbed over walls and hurried through courtyards, a terrible, familiar smell intensified: cooked flesh and wildfire. There had been burnings today.

The first gold cloaks they found were near the barracks; two men quietly standing guard. There was no hope of all of them getting past them without notice, and thus, both had to be slain, as regrettable as it was. Oberyn and Ser Oswell struck quickly from the shadows, since this was not the time nor place for knightly honour.

Entering the barracks was easy, and Rhaegar thought that the Red Keep seemed far emptier than usual. One wouldn't expect much activity this time of night, but there should've been _someone_ up, or at least standing guard outside Lord Manly's door.

There wasn't, however. They all filed into the building, hearing faint snoring from the sleeping quarters, and counting on the hope that _if_ one of the gold cloaks woke up and cried out an alarm, the men's surprise would negate the difference in numbers.

While the commander's door wasn't guarded, it was locked. Ser Brynden did the honours of breaking it open, which created more noise than Rhaegar would have liked.

On the other side, they found a startled Manly Stokeworth scrambling to get out of bed, grabbing a sword that he had kept right next to it. He did not move to attack, however, most likely because he found himself hopelessly outnumbered with the Blackfish, Rhaegar, Prince Lewyn, Lord Eddard, and Ser Barristan inside the room.

They closed the door behind them, as much as that was still possible, and Ser Brynden calmly lit the wick of an oil lamp in the hearth. Stokeworth stood by the bed in his nightgown, sword in hand, appearing both frightened and confused.

As soon as they had a bit of light, Rhaegar pulled back his hood and removed his helmet. “Lord Manly”, he said. “Please forgive us for intruding at such an early hour.”

“Your Gr -” The man shook his head. “How?”

“Do not worry about that.” In fact, Rhaegar thought, someone being able to sneak a large number of men inside the castle _was_ something the commander of the City Watch should worry about, but he didn't have time for this. “I assume you know why I am here.”

Stokeworth tried to squint out the door. “To kill the king.”

If only. “I am beginning to grow offended that everyone seems to assume so. Do you take me for a kinslayer, my lord?”

There wasn't really a good answer the commander could give to that, and so he didn't. “His Grace will not go quietly.” Stokeworth put down his sword, likely having realised that there wasn't much use for it.

“Yes, my lord, I have met my father before.” This was just wasting time. “Let me put it plainly: I would like for you to do your duty and obey the Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms – by joining us, and assuring that the City Watch will follow my orders. If you do, you will be able to continue carrying out your duties as before, though without the threat of being burned alive once my royal father's deranged mind determines that you, too, are a traitor. Your past disobedience will be forgiven.” He nodded towards Oberyn's bloody sword. “If you decline, we will have an easy time finding a new commander.”

It was an excessively easy choice to make, and Stokeworth nodded. “Your Grace shows great wisdom and mercy. I will get dressed.”

Soon after, they strode towards Maegor's Holdfast. There was no need for secrecy, now, as any gold cloaks they encountered obeyed Lord Manly, who walked behind him.

“How many men are there in my father's personal guard now?”, Rhaegar asked Stokeworth.

He heard the commander clear his throat. “None, my prince.”

Rhaegar stopped in his tracks. This brought their entire group to a halt, so he kept walking. _“None?”_

“His Grace had decided that they were not to be trusted. Just yesterday.”

Which meant that they had burned. This was something Rhaegar couldn't quite grasp – of course he knew that his father inspired fear, but on what basis? Oaths and honour were one thing, but he had been outside the city gates for a fortnight now, offering a convenient justification for anyone who wanted to be rid of his father while saving face. Prince Lewyn had managed to do so, though their marriage ties had much to do with that.

Then he thought of his mother, and the way she'd steadfastly obeyed the king even while he'd been held captive at Duskendale – and of his cronies, the Lords Chelsted and Merryweather and Staunton, who were willing to watch hundreds of innocents die in agony in exchange for royal favour. Perhaps that was enough: one man to inspire terror, and a few opportunists willing to support him.

Which left an important question, which he asked while as they neared Maegor's. “What about the Kingsguard?”

“All on duty. Your Grace might know that Ser Gerold had been sent to kill you -”

“Yes.” Like so many others. “How did the king not learn that he disobeyed?”

Glancing back, he spotted Lord Manly looking pleased. “The City Watch can be surprisingly tight-lipped.”

Rhaegar almost snorted. In a way, it was no surprise that none of the gold cloaks had had a chat with his father, and he could hardly give Stokeworth the credit for keeping Ser Gerold alive when he'd allowed all else to happen.

As soon as Maegor's came into full view, they recognised Ser Jonothor Darry standing guard on the bridge over the moat. He, obviously, noticed them as well, futilely drawing his sword.

He didn't move while they came nearer, though they heard him shout into the holdfast. He could have ran inside and raised the drawbridge (assuming that one of his sworn brothers would help), which would have led to a prolonged and presumably rather awkward standoff. Rhaegar was glad he didn't.

“Ser”, he said when they'd reached him, Darry's eyes darting over all of those assembled, and widening when he saw Lord Manly with them. “I mean no harm to the king. Do stand down.”

The knight didn't. “Harm or not”, he replied, “We have vowed to follow the king's commands.” He was looking towards his sworn brothers.

“The king no longer reigns.” Ser Jonothor had protected him for as long as he could remember, and Rhaegar truly didn't want a fight, even if the outcome would clearly be in his favour. “The Lord Commander disobeyed his command to kill me. I simply ask you to stand aside.”

He wished Gerold Hightower himself would come outside, but there was no sign of him. “I will not harm you either”, Ser Jonothor said. “As to your companions, I can make no such guarantee.”

“Jonothor.” Prince Lewyn sighed deeply, hand on the hilt of his sword. “We must still protect the king, but the prince will not have him killed. He is the one we must obey.”

Darry would never be able to win against them all – but what if he hurt or even killed one or two? Rhaegar was very aware that he might have to send his own knights up against him, force them to try and kill their sworn brother. And then there were his good-brothers, too; Oberyn and Lord Eddard. Both of them would fight if he gave the command, one out of friendship and the other out of duty, as well as the love of their sisters.

Ser Jonothor was unmoved. “We are Kingsguard”, he said. “The king has not commanded me to stand down, and I will not.”

How could this be resolved? “Will you surrender to captivity, ser?”, Rhaegar asked. “You know you cannot slay all the others and imprison me. If you would like to do what you think your honour demands, we can take you captive while we do this. You will be far better placed to protect my father alive than dead.”

Evidently, he'd made it too clear that this was meant as a mere rationalisation. “Thank you, Your Grace, but I cannot.” Ser Jonothor raised his sword higher as his three sworn brothers grabbed theirs. “I must defend and obey the king, and give my life if need be.”

“Give your life _for his_”, Prince Lewyn said in a last attempt to sway him. “The king's life is not threatened. There is flexibility in our vows, my friend; all of you have been letting me get away with breaking them for _years_.”

Rhaegar's head spun around to Lewyn, as did Oberyn's. What did _that_ mean?

“This is different”, Darry said. “You have taken no wife and fathered no children; that is enough.” Oh. Did Lewyn have a paramour? Rhaegar could've sworn that he'd seen Oberyn grin, inappropriate as it was in this situation.

“Jon, _please_”, Lewyn said, but it was too late. The other knight had taken a swing at Ser Barristan, who parried easily.

There was only one thing to do, Rhaegar decided as swords were drawn all around. He could stand back and risk his knights' or good-brothers' lives – or he could make sure that Ser Jonothor would go up against the one man he would not harm.

And thus, he drew his own sword, pushed Barristan out of the way, and countered Darry's next blow. There was nothing fair about it; fighting an opponent who would never go on the offensive. It felt more like an execution than a duel.

They'd sparred many times before, and Rhaegar knew Ser Jonothor's weaknesses, while his opponent was unwilling to exploit his own. They fought upon the drawbridge for a much shorter time than Darry's usual skill should have allowed until Rhaegar had cut both the elbow of his sword arm and his inner thigh, and Ser Jonothor lay face-down on the floor, bleeding heavily.

“Yield”, Rhaegar said not for the first time, hoping against hope that they'd be able to find a maester to save him. “I command you.” It was _a lot_ of blood, dripping down onto the spiked moat, and he wanted to throw his sword after it.

Still, incredibly, Ser Jonothor was defiant. “I will not”, he said, having clear difficulty breathing. “You are not the king, Your Grace.”

He wanted to command the others to take him prisoner, but what was the point? Rhaegar had little faith that the knight would live much longer.

Which meant that the only resolution lay in giving him a quick death. “Remove your helmet”, he said, and this time, Ser Jonothor obeyed. Rhaegar pulled him to his knees, struck at his neck, and prayed for forgiveness.

He'd hit at an angle that would assure Ser Jonothor's head wouldn't fall into the moat. There it was, lifeless face staring up into the dark sky. He felt sick to his stomach.

The first had been Varys, he thought as they entered Maegor's Holdfast, finding no gold cloaks nor other guards to stop them. He'd knowingly caused his death, which was virtually the same as doing the deed himself – and, in that way, he'd killed so many others. There was Lord Velaryon, his assassins, his mother's suffering, and now Ser Jonothor. He couldn't be blamed for his father's madness, but he should've taken action much earlier; should've at least entered the Red Keep as soon as he'd got to King's Landing. The heavy smell of wildfire and the emptiness of the castle were testament to that, and had he not spent two weeks dallying, much death and torment could've been avoided.

Too late. As they climbed the stairs to the royal apartments, they heard crying and a loud, satisfied groan. The horror of _that_ wiped all thoughts of past mistakes off his mind.

Gerold Hightower and Jaime Lannister were standing guard at the door to the queen's chambers, confirming that his father was inside. They showed no surprise as they approached, and to Rhaegar's relief, neither of them touched their swords.

Ser Jaime looked terrible; nothing like the confident and carefree boy he'd given the white cloak at Harrenhal. The Lord Commander was the one to face them. “Ser Jonothor?”, he asked.

His blood was still on Rhaegar's sword. “Dead.”

To his astonishment, Ser Gerold nodded. “As he had wished, then.” He glanced at the door. “You swear you will not harm the king?”

Just on cue, the door opened. Out came his father, looking _happy_ while lacing up his breeches and faint sobbing could be heard from inside. Rhaegar's hand twitched, and had Ser Barristan not grabbed his arm, he wasn't sure that he wouldn't have cut him down then and there.

Then, the king saw them. Rhaegar didn't know what was on his face, but it caused an expression of fear on his father's. It brought him more grim satisfaction than it should have.

“Seize the traitors”, the king said, and nobody moved.

Now, there was the much more familiar rage inside his mad eyes, twisting his face under the long, unkempt beard. “Are you deaf?”, he asked, glaring at Ser Gerold, then pointing at Rhaegar. _“Kill him.”_

Rhaegar stared at his father, who was almost as terrible to look at as Ser Jonothor's headless body. “Ser Barristan, Ser Oswell. Please escort the king to his chambers.”

This was an order they could follow. The other knights stood aside, and though Aerys tried to back away, both Kingsguard managed to grab him by the arms.

He went kicking and screaming, as had been expected, but there wasn't anything else he could do. Strictly speaking, they did harm the king as they half dragged, half carried him towards the stairs, but those bruises were far less than he deserved.

Ser Gerold and Ser Jaime both went to their knees. “We have disobeyed you, Your Grace”, the Lord Commander said while Aerys' screams and curses faded into the background. “We will accept whichever punishment you deem fitting.”

“Oh, by the gods.” He ran a hand through his hair, both very tired, and terrified because there was one thing left to do. “You have done nothing wrong. Rise.”

“We have followed the king for too long.” They remained stubbornly on the floor.

Did half the Kingsguard have a death wish? He shouldn't be surprised, he supposed, after all the things they'd witnessed. “You are forgiven. _Rise_, and that is a command.”

So they did. Rhaegar took a look at his companions – this had been easy, overall. Had he truly been wrong in waiting for so long? If he had come earlier, there would have been more people to stand in their way, but did that justify him waiting until most of them had been killed?

He met Eddard Stark's eyes, and wondered what he thought of him. He'd just watched him sneak into the castle under the cover of night, order the killings of two guards without a fair fight, threaten a man with death to convince him to betray his liege, kill one of the men sworn to protect him, and have his father arrested. There were many with him who would see no problem with these actions, and others who'd understand that they'd been necessary – but in the short time he'd got to spend with Lyanna, it had emerged that her family followed a rather stringent code of honour.

Well, this also meant that their ties now obligated Lord Eddard to follow him, so here they were.

Rhaegar looked towards the door, which was still open. The sobs had stopped. He steeled himself, handed his sword to Prince Lewyn, and entered.

The queen's bedchamber was behind another door, slightly ajar. Rhaegar neared it, fearful of what he might find. “Mother?”, he called out.

There was no response, so he lightly knocked on the door. “Mother. It is I.”

He thought he heard sheets rustle. Very slowly, he pushed the door open, glancing inside.

Rhaella was wrapped in blankets, lying on her bed facing the other side of the room. He could only tell she was there by her hair spread out over the pillows.

He knew she wouldn't want him to see her like this, but he had to speak to her; had to tell her that all was over.

“Mother”, he said again, and she jerked up.

For a terrible moment, he thought she was afraid of him as her face showed pure terror. Then she was scrambling out of bed with the sheets clutched around her and ran towards him, tears in her eyes.

“_Rhaegar.”_ She stopped right in front of him, searching his face. “What are you – _leave_, now, before he returns and -” She clasped one hand before her mouth. “He will _burn_ you, Rhaegar, please leave and never come back, he will -”

“He will not.” This was when it sank in, and he felt himself smile ever so slightly. “He will never burn anyone again, Mother. It is over.”

She didn't comprehend at first, then took a step back, looked him over. There was blood on him, he realised. “Did you kill him?”

Why did even _she_ think that? “No. He will remain in custody until his natural death – but he no longer rules. Forget anything they told you about what happened at Harrenhal. I was proclaimed his regent by the lords of this realm, and I will rule as such.”

It took her some time to comprehend that, but when she did, he saw her relax. “Oh. I -”

Rhaella sank onto an armchair, and her sheet fell by a few inches, revealing a bare shoulder. There were deep bruises on it, and bite marks, and a patch that looked burned.

“He will never touch you again”, Rhaegar said, noticing that his voice sounded hard.

She tucked the sheet back into place. “Yes. I should like that.” She was staring into nothingness. “A husband has his rights, of course, but...” She trailed of, then looked up at him. “Is Viserys with you?”

“Yes. Safe and unharmed. He will be back with you soon.” And would be allowed to leave Maegor's from now on, as would the queen.

She slowly nodded. “This is – oh, gods, I am near naked. If it is not too much bother, could you call in my maids?”

Of course he could. There was still much to be said between them; so much he needed to tell her, but it was too much to take in now.

This didn't just apply to her, either. When he left her rooms and returned to the men he'd left in the corridor, Rhaegar fully understood: it was done. His father was deposed, he would reign as Lord Regent, his wives would be able to join him, and his children would grow up in safety.

Which meant that their work had only just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage they use initially is the same one Arya discovers in AGOT, but they take a different entrance, which I'm pretty sure must exist – I don't think Varys and Illyrio went through the sewers and then for a swim.


	30. 15/07/281 – Lyanna

_Summerhall, four days after His Grace the Lord Regent took power in King's Landing_

It was a cold, rainy day, but also a beautiful one. Once again, a rider had come with news, and they were the best they could've hoped for.

Now, it was time to leave Summerhall. Lyanna had been looking forward to undertaking the journey on horseback, but as Elia pointed out, most of the realm wouldn't know about Rhaegar's victory yet. And so she climbed into the wheelhouse once more, hoping that their progress would be quick. All else remained just as on their way there, with Lady Dacey dressed as a Dornishwoman, Ser Arthur concealing his face, and their dozen guards without insignia.

Naturally, they were in a good mood as it began. Lady Ashara was happily chatting about how they would transform life at court now that the king was gone, and both she and Elia delighted in forming a plan to invite Dornish cooks to the capital. Even more, Elia had great ideas about giving patronage to renowned artists and singers from Westeros and beyond, and wanted to commission a play as well. Outside, they could hear Ser Arthur, Lady Dacey, and the men jesting.

Lyanna was just as happy as them, but at the same time, she felt anxious. They were now certain of her pregnancy, most of all because she'd drawn the Barak rune for fertility and the future every single time she'd asked. That was good – it was all she'd wanted for years, or rather, all that the gods had been asking of her.

However, and she knew this to be a childish, selfish fear: what now? What _was_ she, now? She would have the child, fulfilling her part in the prophecy. What could _she_ do at court in King's Landing? It was all foreign to her, and listening to Elia and Lady Ashara made this clear; the way they talked about all these southron lords, about the arts and tourneys and Braavosi playwrights.

Even more, she was nervous about meeting Rhaegar again. Lyanna was sure that both he and Elia _liked_ her, which was far better than the opposite. But now that they'd accomplished what they'd set out to do; fulfilled the reason for their marriage, he didn't truly need to bother with her anymore.

In truth, she barely knew her husband. They'd been wed for four days by the time they'd parted; had spent three nights together. Those had been full of a kind of pleasure she hadn't known before, the sheer memory making her blush as she remembered the feeling of his skin on hers, his lips upon her, him _inside_ her – but it seemed like such a distant memory by now.

“What do you think, Lyanna?”, Elia asked her, and she was thrown out of her thoughts.

“Forgive me, I did not catch that.” She looked from one woman to the other, and thought that Lady Ashara seemed vaguely embarrassed.

“Your brother”, Elia said. “Our lady of Dayne is so anxious for us to find a reason to keep him in the capital for the time being. Do you believe he could be persuaded?”

If she asked him? Easily. “I am sure he could, as long as our lord father has no other plans for him.” The idea of having Ned around for a while was comforting.

“That would be wonderful”, Lady Ashara said. “But, is it just me or have we been slowing down?” She peered outside the carriage.

“I think we have, yes”, Elia replied, sounding worried. Then, they came to a halt, and Lady Ashara frowned.

“Make way!”, they heard Ser Arthur command. Lyanna tried to look past the window curtains, and noticed with a sudden bolt of fear that they were being surrounded by armed men. Lady Ashara cursed softly, prompting Elia to look alarmed, and Lyanna reached for the dagger on her belt.

“For whom?”, a voice asked. It was the deepest she'd ever heard.

Their own guards formed a protective circle around their carriage, and at least, it didn't seem like they were outnumbered.

“The Lady Ashara Dayne, of Starfall”, Ser Arthur replied. Lyanna saw Lady Dacey just by her window, holding her vicious morning star behind her back.

“No-one else?” The deep voice wasn't convinced. “We'd hoped for a princess or two. I can't imagine you'd be sent to guard your sister, Dayne.”

Ashara cursed again, but louder. Lyanna agreed – who were these men? How did they know where they were, and who, and what did they want with them? She remembered that Lord Robert had sent his brother to capture them at Dragonstone; had he found out that she'd been at Summerhall in truth? Sent men to get what he thought he was owed?

“Make way, ser”, they heard Arthur Dayne say again. “We are under the command and protection of the Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I don't see him here”, the deep voice replied. “And if I did, I'd kill the both of you.”

The fighting started suddenly and brutally, and Lyanna immediately saw one of the attackers plunging his sword through the skull of one of their men. That one had always done the cooking, she remembered.

Elia pulled her back from the window, though she seemed barely there, as her eyes were distant and her lips moved in frantic prayer. She was holding Ashara, too, who looked at Lyanna. “We will be _fine_”, she said decisively, as if that would make it true. “We have my brother.”

The door next to her flew open; pulled out of its hinges with sheer, brute force. An enormous hand grabbed Ashara by the hair and she screamed while Elia held onto her with all her might, and Lyanna stabbed at the hand with her dagger.

That did nothing, as the man was armoured in the thickest plate she'd ever seen. Yet, he let out a furious roar in the next instant, and let go of Ashara.

Lady Dacey was immediately by the door, blood and worse dripping off her morning star. It was hard to see past her, as she kept leaping left and right to lunge at anyone who dared to come close, but the glimpses were there.

Ser Arthur was fighting a man so large Lyanna was sure he'd come out of Old Nan's stories about giants and their wildling lovers. He barely seemed human in his size and was wielding a greatsword as long as Ice with one hand, a shield taller than their carriage door in the other.

His blows left deep marks upon the earth and would have likely split Ser Arthur in two. Thinking of the terror she'd feel if she saw Ned or even Bran fight such a beast, Lyanna glanced at Ashara, and was surprised to find delight on her face.

Perhaps she was right in that reaction. Dawn, too, was a greatsword, and though Ser Arthur could carry no shield while wielding it, this gave him the same reach as his opponent. He could not match the giant's strength, but his skill more than made up for it.

Dawn appeared a pale glimmer in the air, such was the speed at which it danced around the other man. Ser Arthur was untouchable by his heavy blows. Every time he struck the attacker's shield, a piece chipped off. One time, his sword grazed the other man's armour, and it was clear it had cut right though it.

Dawn wasn't made of Valyrian steel, Lyanna remembered, but forged out of a fallen star, and just as sharp. The giant was limping now, and she wasn't always sure how, but each of their exchanges seemed to leave him weaker and slower. The man roared when Ser Arthur landed a blow on his shoulder, which appeared to have gone deep.

By now, she realised, all other fighting had stopped. Everyone else was merely watching, as it was clear that the outcome of this duel would determine everyone else's fate – until one of the attacker's men, standing close to the carriage, suddenly lunged at Ser Arthur from behind.

_He'll kill him_, she thought with horror. Before he could, however, Lady Dacey's morning star bashed in his skull. So much for that.

The enormous man screamed in pure rage when he fell to one knee, no longer able to stand. Ser Arthur cut at him expertly, as if the giant's greatsword wasn't there and his armour nothing but cloth. His shield was negligible, now, and it was clear that he wouldn't even be on his knees much longer.

Another of his men tried his luck. With a nonchalance that was close to insulting, Dawn flashed towards him and took his head off his shoulders. Lyanna wasn't entirely sure if Ser Arthur had even truly noticed.

He pierced and slashed here and there, like a butcher with a cut of meat. “Come on, Clegane”, he said when the giant had fallen on all fours, blood seeping out of his armour at every spot. “You are a knight. Fight like one.”

The man let go of his sword and crawled towards him with surprising speed, which only resulted in a deep wound in his forearm. It appeared it was only being held in one piece by the remainders of his armour. “Disappointing”, Ser Arthur said, seeming to take more joy in the situation than Lyanna thought ought to. “Now stand up and die like a man.”

Clegane, whoever he was, _tried_, but the weight of his own body and armour made it impossible. “Fuck you”, he growled.

Ser Arthur sighed in mock regret, then drove Dawn through the giant's back, coming out at his heart. The enormous man collapsed, and his killer had to stand atop him to draw his sword back out.

Then, he looked to the rest of the men. “Yield”, he said. They did.

“Did he hurt you?”, he asked Lady Ashara as he'd joined them at the carriage. He and Elia had been giving orders – to dig a very large grave for the dead knight and the others, and to tie up the surviving men so they could be questioned.

She was rubbing her head. “He pulled out some of my hair.”

Ser Arthur didn't have a huge amount of sympathy for that. “It will grow back. Your Graces?”

“We are fine, ser.” Both of the other women seemed very composed, though Lyanna didn't feel like it – which mostly came from her churning stomach. She'd spent much of the last few days being sick, and the sight of death didn't help.

“That was Ser Gregor Clegane”, Ser Arthur said while they watched Lady Dacey limp towards them, supported by one of their guards. “The Mountain. I have seen him at tourneys, and he is easy to recognise.” He gave a meaningful look to Elia. “He was Tywin Lannister's man.”

“Tywin”, Elia repeated, looking at the men who'd yielded with new disgust. “I assume he was still wagering on the king emerging victorious when he gave that order.”

“He would have been. We will speak to them.” Then he bowed respectfully as Dacey reached them. “My lady.”

She groaned while the guard helped her into the carriage, stretching out her leg. “I think it's just a cut”, she said in response to Lyanna's worried gaze. She was still bleeding from just below her left knee, blood slowly seeping through the fabric of the thin gown she'd been wearing.

Impressed, Lyanna realised that the woman had been the only fighter not wearing any kind of armour. “How is it we're in the south and don't have one of your maesters?”, Lady Dacey wanted to know.

“Well.” Ser Arthur gazed down at her leg. “It might need stitches. I am sure that I or one of the men could do it, though if my lady would prefer a maester, we could send someone to -”

She waved her hand. “Ser. If you could see half my scars, you'd know that I have been given stitches by drunk fishermen. I am sure a knight of the Kingsguard will do better than that.”

When Lyanna had heard that the prisoners were to be _questioned_, she'd imagined something terrible; torture and the like. As it turned out, the men were happy enough to tell them everything they needed to hear without such measures. Perhaps it was the threat of Dawn hanging over them.

They did talk to them one by one, however. Elia seemed to have assumed that Lyanna would join, and so she did, listening to what each man had to say. A clear picture soon emerged: They'd left the Westerlands accompanying Cersei Lannister, who – and this was news to them – was to wed Robert Baratheon.

This did take a moment to sink in. Ever since Lyanna had heard that Lord Robert had sent his brother to sail for Dragonstone and capture them, she'd somehow assumed that he had meant to force her into marriage after all. But _(of course)_ he hadn't; he knew she was already wed and no longer a maid, and why would he want to wed her now? She shuddered to think of what else he might've thought to do to her.

Ser Gregor and his companions had then split from Lady Cersei's party. None of them were sure just how Lord Lannister had found about about their whereabouts, but all agreed that he'd known. Clearly, the order to capture them had been given a while ago; somewhere between the day Rhaegar had arrived at King's Landing, and his entering the city. Elia suspected that the one rider who'd thought he'd been followed had been right.

The men had no knowledge nor interest in what Lord Tywin had planned for them, and could only tell them that they'd been commanded to capture Elia, Lady Ashara, and herself, while killing all the rest. Apparently, they'd been given instructions that Lyanna wasn't to be touched, Elia could be “done with as we pleased, if m'lady will forgive me for sayin' that; I'm just repeating what I've been told” as long as it didn't harm her pregnancy, and Lady Ashara could be “used whichever way we want”, under the condition of keeping her alive. Elia had told that man that she wouldn't forgive any of this, and that he would be wise to address her with her true title.

None of the men they spoke to believed that anyone would come after them now. “Ser”, as they all seemed to call Clegane, had been assumed to be impossible to defeat. They didn't know if Lord Lannister had known that Ser Arthur was with them – some thought that he hadn't been aware, others that he simply hadn't taken the Sword of the Morning very seriously.

“Well”, Elia said after the last man had been dealt with. “I always knew that Lord Tywin would resent us, but this is still surprising. I would assume that he meant to take us hostage – you”, she looked at Lyanna, “to give to Lord Baratheon, or to blackmail your lord father; me to presumably keep until I birthed my child, or give to the king; and Ashara to either further pressure my brother by ensuring that her House would demand her release, or at least gain a ransom.” She cocked her head. “Mayhaps he would've tried to negotiate with Rhaegar as well, keeping us both hostage. Either way, it is quite obvious that he did not expect our royal husband to take power so soon.”

“Still.” Lyanna felt even more sick, now, thinking about what might've happened if they'd been accompanied by anyone but the Sword of the Morning. “Why those orders? Why would Lord Lannister tell those men that they could do to you what they wanted? That is not how you treat a highborn hostage.”

“No.” Elia was smiling, though not in a joyful way. “He has an axe to grind. There was a time when he thought that his daughter might wed Rhaegar, and I do not believe that he appreciated being left out at Harrenhal – even if he simply could have come.” She gazed towards the carriage, where both Daynes were with Lady Dacey, stitching up her leg. “I assume our Lady Ashara was meant as a further incentive for the men. It is not every day a common brigand gets to rape a famed beauty such as her.”

Lyanna looked to the prisoners. All seven of them had their wrists bound behind their backs and were kneeling on the ground, their own guards standing over them. The monstrosity of what could've happened was difficult to grasp. “And I was to be spared so it would be easier to sell me to Lord Robert?” She couldn't imagine him doing _that_ to her, but she did know that men were capable of such things. He certainly would've been less than happy to receive her after having been violated by a dozen of them.

Elia nodded. Behind the carriage, graves were being dug; for their dead and for those of the attackers. “What now?”, she asked.

“That is the question. We cannot take them all to King's Landing. Further, we must move on, and soon.” She felt the other woman's eyes on her. “You and I are as good as queens now, Lyanna, and will need to counsel our husband, and speak for him when he is absent. If it was upon you to speak judgement – and to an extent, it is – what would you say?”

By the gods, what a question. “Where I am from”, she said slowly, looking at the way those prisoners seemed so harmless in the state they were now in, “a rapist is gelded, unless it emerges that he has committed multiple rapes. Then he is beheaded by his lord in the godswood. But we only know that these men likely had the intent to rape you and the Lady Ashara; we do not know if they have ever done so before. It is not even clear if all of them would have done it.”

“They have also attacked us”, Elia remarked. “They attacked two princesses of the realm, two ladies of high birth, and a knight of the Kingsguard. You can assume that Lady Dacey would have suffered a horrid fate herself.”

She would've died in the fighting before that, Lyanna knew, but the point remained. “They yielded. Now, it is our responsibility to treat them with honour.” What would her lord father do? “I suppose we can hardly send them to the Wall?”

“That would require taking them to the capital first.” She'd known that, though she would've liked it if it were different.

As things stood, however, those men would have to be dealt with here and now. “Do we know anything about them? Have they committed crimes before?”

“We do not know for certain. I think it likely, considering who it was they followed, but I have no proof. You heard Ser Gregor – he quite clearly expressed his desire to kill both Rhaegar and Ser Arthur.”

Lyanna was lost. “What do you believe should be done?”

“I believe that the safest choice would be to order them all killed.” Elia looked sad, now. “Whether I have the stomach to give the command, however, is a different question. We cannot let them go as they are; not after what they attempted to do, even if they are unlikely to do us any harm now. And what else remains?” She shook her head. “The Wall would be a good solution, but we do not have the necessary amount of guards to bring them to King's Landing, nor the horses. I do not wish to waste time by having them walk. There is no castle nearby safe Summerhall, and I would not want to reduce the number of men we have with us in order to bring them back.”

It always seemed so easy when her lord father judged someone. A crime was proven, and the corresponding punishment given. Prisoners, Lyanna knew, should be ransomed, but it was clear that none of the men before them were highborn – and even if they had been, that didn't solve the problem of being unable to move them.

“Why is it that we cannot release them? Without horses, they would be moving more slowly than us. By the time they would be able to tell Lord Tywin what has happened here, we would already be in King's Landing.” Even while she said it, Lyanna could feel that part of her wasn't entirely convinced.

“We would.” Elia cocked her hand. “But would that be _just_, if you consider what they meant to do?”

No, and that was her problem as well. Yet – they hadn't done it. “We do know which of them have killed members of our own party.” Four of their guards where dead, one gravely wounded, and another had injuries he was likely to survive. She didn't want to contemplate the dead men now. “We are not at war. Hence, they are murderers.” The punishment for murder was clear. “I wish we could give them to the gods.”

“Give -” Elia stared at her, and Lyanna just now remembered that this wasn't something they did in the south. “You sacrifice people to the old gods?”

“Only criminals condemned to die.” And enemies in war. “Either way. I suppose”, and this was hard to say out loud, “that those of them who killed our men must be executed.”

Elia slowly nodded. “Yes. As to the others – perhaps their fates could be left to the gods. Have them stripped of everything and released. I would have suggested branding them as brigands, but we have no means to do so. They can be marked with cuts instead.”

Lyanna looked around. It had stopped raining a while ago, but it was still cold, and seemed like it would start pouring again quite soon. There was a harsh wind in the air, and no castle nor village anywhere close. Still, it would not be fair to release them upon any unsuspecting peasants with no markings of their crime.

The prisoners would need quite a lot of godly goodwill to make it very far, but considering what they had intended to do, she couldn't muster much sympathy. “Agreed”, she said.

She was no stranger to beheadings, and Dawn provided just as quick of a death as Ice. There was something different in having been the one – or one of the two – to give the order, however. Her lord father always said that the man who passed the sentence should swing the sword, but they weren't men, and Ser Arthur was far better suited for the job. The four survivors who'd killed their own guards died quickly and painlessly, and at the very least, she made herself watch.

She also got sick afterwards, but that had been a long time coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would've been a great opportunity for the Dayne house words... if we knew them. 
> 
> “Torture and the like”. Really, I know that using torture would've been pretty appropriate for the setting, but torture is dumb. It definitely works if your motive is plain cruelty or intimidation, but it's really not a great way to gather intelligence, and I don't want to make it seem like it is because that's a depressingly common misconception. Again, people in this setting wouldn't necessarily have known that, but it is true.
> 
> Though it might seem harsh, I'm pretty sure that Elia and Lyanna let the (surviving) prisoners off pretty easily. They just weren't quite ready to order them all executed.


	31. 20/07/281 – Elia

_King's Landing, five days after the Princesses Elia and Lyanna were attacked near Summerhall_

They'd left the half-broken wheelhouse behind with most of their men a few hours' ride from the capital, and undertaken the rest of the way on horseback. Elia was too far along in her pregnancy to not find this uncomfortable, but this was more dignified than arriving in a carriage with a missing door and injured guards.

They were more dressed up now, too, and Ser Arthur wore his white cloak once more. She still would have preferred to arrive well-rested after just having had a bath and a few maids to tend to her, as that would've helped all of them to cut more impressive figures – but here they were. The comforts of castle life weren't far now, anyway.

They'd sent a rider ahead to let Rhaegar know of their impending arrival, and he didn't disappoint. As they neared the King's Gate, a party emerged from within it. The banners of the Houses Targaryen, Stark, and Martell could be seen from far away, as could the white cloaks of their companions, and her husband's silver hair.

That made her smile. She'd missed him.

She rode in front with Lyanna, followed by Ser Arthur, Ashara, and Lady Dacey, injured but still able to ride. As they neared their welcoming party, they could see that Rhaegar was flanked by Oberyn and Lord Eddard, with her uncle Lewyn, Ser Barristan, and Ser Gerold Hightower just behind. She still didn't know just how things had gone when Rhaegar had taken power, but clearly, the Lord Commander had been convinced to join his side.

Both groups stopped a few feet away from each other, and Rhaegar spurred his horse further towards them. He looked good, she thought – not only in the obvious sense of his being beautiful, but he seemed healthy as well, and whichever poison had been used on him hadn't taken a deep toll. She searched his neck for a scar, but he wore a high collar.

“My lady wife.” There was so much warmth in his voice and his eyes, making her want to jump off her horse so they could greet each other properly; embrace and kiss and celebrate that this had _worked_, all other worries be damned.

Instead, she held out her hand for him to kiss. “Your Grace. It has been too long.”

“It has”, he agreed, and turned to Lyanna. “My lady wife”, he said again, mouth twitching.

Lyanna seemed to suppress a giggle as she, too, stretched out her hand. Behind Rhaegar, it was obvious that all were trying to act as if they were perfectly accustomed to the situation.

Soon enough, she hoped, that would be true.

She'd spent much of the journey worrying about what kind of welcome they'd receive from the people of King's Landing. As it turned out, it was cheerful enough – people did still love Rhaegar, that much was clear, though they likely would've loved anyone who took over from Aerys.

They didn't even come close to the Great Sept on their way to the castle, which probably helped as well. On the River Row, patrons had streamed out of inns to watch them pass. Some were silent, others shouted blessings and their names, though several variations of Lyanna's could be heard.

By the time they'd reached the Fishmonger's Square, where market stands had been pushed away to make space for the crowds wanting to see them, it was apparent that the other woman was dazzled by the sheer size of the city. Elia could understand that; she'd felt the same, as there wasn't anything even close to it in Dorne. They rode up the Hook, smiling and waving, and finally the castle came into view.

She leaned towards Lyanna. “I do not know what Winterfell is like, but the first time I saw the Red Keep, I thought it was terribly intimidating. Perhaps it is just its position on the hill.”

They looked at the red walls, the gold cloaks upon their crenelations, the bronze gates turned green with patina. “It is intimidating”, Lyanna agreed, “but also a lot less grey.” She leaned in further, somehow holding onto her horse without effort. “The _smell_, however...”

Elia had to laugh. “You will stop noticing it eventually, and it is less pronounced up in the castle.”

They passed under the barbican and into the outer courtyard, where more people had assembled to welcome them. Jon Arryn was there, wearing the chain of the Hand of the King, along with Mace Tyrell, Ser Brynden Tully, the inevitable Jon Connington, and the remaining knights of the Kingsguard – though Ser Jonothor appeared absent. And then, a strange sight in this environment: Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys.

Her good-mother had to be greeted first. She looked older than the last time Elia had seen her, even though that had only been a few moons ago, and frail as well.

She was smiling, however, when she kissed Elia's cheeks. “It is good to see you well, dear. To think you were without a maester for so long, and with child...” She glanced down at Elia's belly.

The queen had, of course, experienced many a troubled pregnancy. “Oh, there was no issue – hello, Viserys. How you have grown!”

The little prince stood proudly. Elia couldn't even imagine how he was taking it all in.

She heard Rhaegar clear his throat behind her. “Mother”, he said, “Viserys. I present to you my wife, Lyanna of House Stark.”

Lyanna was nervous as the curtsied, Elia thought, even though she was trying to hide it. “My queen, my prince. It is an honour to meet you.”

Rhaella, ever the kindest soul in the Kingdoms, took Lyanna's hands with a reassuring smile. “I have always wished for a daughter, and now I have two. Welcome to King's Landing, my dear.”

Three, Elia thought, remembering the conversation she'd had with Lyanna at Summerhall. She'd have three, counting good-daughters as well.

Which meant that the queen had to be with child now, in fact, as it was unlikely that the king was still allowed anywhere near her. She wondered if she already knew.

Viserys greeted Lyanna with uncertainty, looking wide-eyed at Rhaegar. “You really aren't a wolf!”, he said to her, somewhat accusingly.

Lyanna laughed, startled. “Are you sure, Your Grace? My lord father once said I had the wolf blood. Perhaps I will show you how I turn on the full moon.”

Viserys' eyes went even wider and he took a step back. “I don't believe you”, he then decided, not sounding entirely convinced.

The castle was busy. By now, it had been nine days since Rhaegar had arrived, and it was obvious that he hadn't wasted any time. They passed groups of men sparring, saw others carry bricks and planks up the serpentine steps, and several carts entered through the main gate behind them, heading for the granaries.

It was just the three of them and two Kingsguard once they'd entered Maegor's – everyone else had been greeted, and they'd all come together to discuss everything later in the day (barring the queen and Viserys, who had riding lessons to attend). For now, they stood in a corridor before the royal apartments.

“Well.” Rhaegar was looking at them both, opened his mouth, closed it again. “There is much to be said.”

She exchanged a look with Lyanna. “Would you like to say it while seated, perhaps? Or even better, after we have had a chance to wash and change?” They were on the floor they'd stayed on during previous occasions. “Which rooms will be ours?”

“See, that is the question. I have had my father moved to the highest floor, and Mother and Viserys to the bottom, so there is much distance between them. But I will not take the king's chambers, as I would not like anyone to think that I am usurping his title.”

Lyanna snorted at that, and Rhaegar nodded in acknowledgement. “I know, but these details do matter. I have taken these rooms behind me, and there is a set on either side that has been prepared, but I do not know which one either of you would prefer. They are much the same.”

“It makes no matter”, Elia said, turning to Lyanna. “I take the ones on the right, you those on the left?”

The other woman shrugged. “Why not. Is my maid here anywhere? Emy, who was with me at Harrenhal?”

“I would assume so”, Rhaegar said, “if she came down with Lord Eddard. I do know that your belongings are somewhere with him.” He sighed. “I will help you find someone who will know. Truly, this castle is not quite running the way it should yet.”

As he walked off with Lyanna, Elia frowned. Where had all the old servants gone? She nodded at Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan and made for her new rooms.

There were maids ready and waiting for her, at least. She sent them to prepare a bath and find out where her own things had gone, shed her dusty travelling cloak, and sat down with a cup of water. There was a fruit bowl from which she took an apricot, pulling it open to reveal the stone.

The door opened without a knock. Rhaegar strode in, pushing the door closed without breaking his pace, only stopped right before her, and took her face into his hands.

Then he kissed her. Elia felt herself set aflame, dropping the apricot and pulling him down onto the couch, climbing into his lap. He sighed out her name as he ran his hands down her body, she worked at the fastenings of his doublet and -

“Seven fucking hells.” Frozen, Elia stared down at the deep purple lines upon his skin, stretching out like a web from a thick, vicious scar.

“Ah. Yes. I had forgotten.” Rhaegar cocked his head, seeming amused. “I have never heard you swear like that before.”

“Never mind that.” She carefully touched the skin where it was discoloured. “Does it hurt?”

“No.” He picked up a strand of her hair, twirling it around his fingers. “It _did_ hurt when the poison was still within me. I thought I was burning.”

“Gods.” The thought of him in so much pain was difficult to bear. “It should never have been allowed to happen. Where were the Kingsguard? How could anyone come so close to you?”

“They are not to blame, though they do blame themselves. The guardsmen who let the assassins into the camp are dead – and Pycelle is in a black cell.”

That much made sense. “It was he who supplied the poison?”

“Yes. We found more of it in his chambers, and one of his servants confirmed that he had provided it.” Rhaegar shrugged, somehow. “To be honest, I do not mind the scar. I think it gives me a certain resemblance to Bloodraven, in a way.” Of course he thought that. “But we can speak of this later, because now...” He drew her closer, but Elia's mind was elsewhere.

She gently pushed back. “Pycelle is a great admirer of Lord Lannister, is he not? Do you believe that he could have known, too?” He didn't even know about their journey yet. “We were attacked on the road by his men.”

“You were _what?_” Rhaegar stared at her. “How – what happened?”

Elia sighed. They could've been making love right now, but clearly, there were too many other things to take care of.

“Let us speak with Lyanna”, she said, regretfully climbing off his lap. “Though I do absolutely demand that you come to my bed tonight.”

They brought each other up to speed. Lyanna was just as shocked as Elia when she heard the details of his poisoning, and he enraged about the story of their assault. They also heard about the exact order of events when he'd returned to the Red Keep, and about just how many had died before he did. Of those at court, many had left while they still could, though the master of arms Ser Willem Darry had fallen victim to the king's paranoia just on the last day – he'd been Ser Jonothor's brother, making his defiance of Rhaegar even more incredible to Elia. Many servants and nearly all guardsmen were dead, although some who'd fled the castle had returned by now, including that drunken red priest as well as a number of gaolers, grooms, and craftsmen. The dungeon cells, incidentally, had been left untouched, and though the prisoners had been hungry, they'd mostly remained alive – apparently, Aerys hadn't seen criminals as a threat.

The implications of it all meant that they might as well discuss the matter with the other men. This meant convening Oberyn, Lord Eddard, and Jon Arryn in Rhaegar's solar. Elia still was unsure of whether the Hand could be trusted with their deepest secrets, but it stood to reason that he had committed to their side, and should know of these developments.

“I had not taken Lord Lannister for such a fool”, was his verdict. They had also just learned that Quellon Greyjoy was sailing for King's Landing in order to swear his fealty to Rhaegar as Lord Regent, while Robert Baratheon hadn't replied to a raven ordering him to immediately stop his assault on Dragonstone. Hence, the Velaryon fleet would take care of his. “He truly must have believed that the king would prevail.”

“He almost did”, Rhaegar pointed out. “There are very few men in this world who could have cured me.” He gave a nod of recognition to Oberyn, who responded with a cocky smile. Elia felt quite proud of her little brother, and deeply grateful.

“They can hardly do anything _now_, can they?”, Lyanna asked. “The Houses Lannister and Baratheon alone would never be able to defeat the rest of the realm. How can Lord Robert still refuse to order his brother back from Dragonstone?”

“Pride”, Lord Eddard said. “And rage. Robert has never been one to concede defeat.”

Lord Arryn sighed, and it sounded terribly sad. “He has not. Perhaps Ser Stannis will see reason before he does. Lord Lannister certainly will, though I would caution Your Graces to never trust him.”

“Yes, my lord, we are quite aware of that.” Tywin's name had brought a quiet fury back into Rhaegar's eyes. “At least he will finally be able to marry off the Lady Cersei.”

“What about Ser Jaime?”, Elia asked. “Is it wise to have his son guarding us?”

“I believe he can be trusted”, Rhaegar said. “We could assign him in pairs with Ser Arthur for the time being, just to be safe.” She liked the sound of that. After what he'd done to Gregor Clegane, Elia had no doubt that Ashara's brother could take on near anyone.

“This leads to the question of a new position on the Kingsguard”, Lord Arryn said. “As well as the new appointments to the small council, of course. One would assume we will need a new Grand Maester as well.”

All remaining members of Aerys' council were currently being kept in their chambers, and would quite likely be sent home, or perhaps – should there be any evidence of actual crimes committed – to the Wall.

“Yes.” Rhaegar seemed exhausted, she thought, and there truly was so much to do. “Lord Velaryon will be master of ships, as is both customary and appropriate under the circumstances. Lord Tyrell is master of coin. I should like to find representatives from a variety of kingdoms for the rest.” Lord Arryn nodded. “I would also want to pay a visit to the High Septon soon, which should be interesting.” Her husband looked around the room. “I believe you had news to share with your sister, Lord Eddard?”

Elia still wasn't sure about her – was he her good-brother? Did that count? Who was Lyanna to her? The terminology was getting confusing.

Either way, she wasn't certain if she understood Lord Eddard as a person. He always seemed very calm, even still; like a frozen lake. His older brother would have been easier to measure.

Now, however, he smiled very slightly. “Brandon and Lady Catelyn's wedding has taken place, and they have returned to Winterfell with Benjen. I still have not heard whether he will join the Watch soon.”

“He will.” There wasn't any doubt in Lyanna's voice. “It is what the gods demand.”

Lord Arryn seemed slightly confused by that. He didn't get to ask any questions, however, because Oberyn cut in. “Meanwhile, our dear brother would like to know whether Dorne can expect a royal visit soon, or whether he should send Rhaenys to the capital instead.”

Elia longed for a visit to Sunspear and the Water Gardens, but it was clear that she was needed here. “I cannot leave for the time being”, she said, to which Rhaegar agreed.

“Very well”, her husband said. “I trust Prince Doran will take all necessary steps to return our daughter.” The thought was wonderful. “I do believe that this concludes matters for now, until we inevitably receive some sort of news that will make us reconvene in an hour or so.”

“There is one more thing”, the Hand said. “The queen.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Rhaegar shook his head. “How could I forget to mention that? My mother is with child.”

Then they did know already. Elia wasn't surprised in the least, and neither was Lyanna – who, naturally, had news of her own. “So am I”, she said plainly.

This caused a reaction. Rhaegar looked just like he had the two times Elia had told him of her pregnancies, if perhaps more surprised; Lord Arryn seemed to quickly accept it, and Lord Eddard's generally still impression shifted quite a bit. She thought he looked vaguely disturbed.

Oberyn was not. “Father Above, Rhaegar, you are quickly catching up with me. Soon enough, the number of children in this castle will rival the Water Gardens.”

He did have a point: Unless anything unforeseen happened, the next year would see the Red Keep contain three royal infants and one toddler.

By then, it was the evening, and Elia was thoroughly exhausted. She had the long-awaited bath, a light meal, then went to lie in bed.

It was strange to be alone, though Rhaegar didn't make her wait for long. It had been more than a moon since the last time they'd lain with each other, and Elia wasn't quite sure just how she'd managed for this long. It felt too good to be this close to him again; to feel the warmth of skin against skin, and him inside and behind her (there was a belly to contend with, after all).

Afterwards, he was holding her close. “I missed you”, he said, and kissed her hair.

“And I you.” She took his hand, which was wrapped around her from behind, and held it against her chest. “I cannot believe you almost_ died_.”

“And I cannot believe you were almost abducted and – the rest would be too terrible to even say.” He pulled her closer towards him. “This will never be forgiven, my love. Lord Tywin tried to have me killed and the two of you taken prisoner and worse. We will make him pay.”

_Yes_. Deep in her heart, she knew she wanted vengeance. Further, it would do no good to make anyone think they could escape unharmed after such actions.

“We will”, she said. “I am quite looking forward to it. I imagine it will be different from ordering those men to be put to the sword, as Lyanna and I had to do.”

“You could have had them all killed”, he said. “What they did called for it. I can understand why you did not, and it is far from certain they are still alive, but do not feel as if you did anything wrong.”

“I know.” She shifted further towards him, if that was possible at all. He was so _warm_. “You have had to do worse, of course.”

“Killing that assassin was easy.” She didn't doubt it; it had clearly been the only way for him to survive. “Ser Jonothor was not. He was a good man, and loyal to the end. To repay him for his service like that...”

She heard him trail off, voice full of sorrow, and squeezed his hand. “He wanted to die. After all that he had done; all that he had likely aided the king to do – who would not feel immense guilt? If Ser Jonothor had had any wish to live, he would have taken one of the opportunities you had given him.”

She felt his nose at the nape of her neck, brushing her hair aside so he could kiss the skin beneath. “Still. It will haunt me.” Then he gently untangled his hand from hers so he could caress her belly. “We will see Rhaenys soon.”

“I _know_.” Every time she remembered it, Elia felt a surge of joy. “How much do you believe she has grown? Will she be able to say her first words? I would hope she did not learn them from Oberyn's daughters.”

She felt him chuckle. “We will see. Most importantly, she will be with us; and before the birth of her brother.”

“Brothers, even. Have you given any thought to names?”

He hummed. “This one”, he said with a tap on her belly, “will be Aegon. What better name for a king?”

She should've known. “Obviously. The other?”

“I do not know.” A kiss on the back of her head. “When I named Rhaenys, I had assumed that my children would be two girls and a boy: a Rhaenys, an Aegon, and a Visenya. With another boy now – I can hardly name him Viserys.”

No, there was enough confusion in his family tree already. “Well, you have until sometime next year.” She was happy with her son being called Aegon; it really was a very kingly name, and would leave no doubt as to who of the two half-brothers – close in age as they would be – was intended as his successor. “For now, let us sleep. There is so much to do.”

He groaned. “Please do not mention that. How am I meant to sleep with those thoughts?”

However, Rhaegar fell asleep even before she did. It didn't take Elia long, but she heard his breathing change even before she drifted off.

Tomorrow, they would take on all the lords, High Septons, and conspiracies that were thrown at them. For now, she was happy to simply fall asleep in his arms; warm, relaxed, and comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany and “Jon” will be born earlier in this version of events than in canon. I could've probably had Lyanna get pregnant later, but definitely not Rhaella, since there was no way that Aerys wouldn't be kept very, very far from her from now on.


	32. 21/07/281 – Lyanna

_King's Landing, the day after the arrival of the Princesses Elia and Lyanna_

She was awoken by needing to vomit, as so often these days. Like during the end of their stay at Summerhall, a bowl was waiting next to her bed, which at least made matters easier.

The sounds of her retching called in Lady Dacey, who'd slept in Lyanna's bed, but must have risen before her. By the time Lyanna was done, a cup of water was ready for her.

She cleaned out her mouth with a twig and a herbal rinse, and felt much better. “It seems miserable”, Dacey said, pulling open the curtains. “My own lady mother is the same. Every time she gets with child, weeks of this follow.”

“I can only hope it will stop soon.” Lyanna stretched and looked out her window. She didn't think it was late, but the castle was already filled with activity. A new household guard was being drilled, new servants hired, new gold cloaks transferred from the city gates into the Red Keep.

It was hard to imagine that less than a fortnight ago, a large number of the people they replaced had died. The monstrosity of what had taken place here was difficult to comprehend, perhaps because wildfire left no corpses.

“The prince was here half an hour ago”, Lady Dacey said. “I told him you were still sleeping, and he said he would return soon.”

“You could have woken me.” She sat at a small desk with a Myrish mirror. Her rooms were large and luxurious, as could be expected, and the furnishings more refined than at home.

The other woman took an ivory comb and began to work at the knots in Lyanna's hair. She hadn't had the energy to take care of them the night before; simply falling into bed. “Considering that you begin every day by being sick”, just then, a maid hurried in to remove the offending bowl, “I thought you may want some time between waking and seeing your royal husband.” That was a good point. “Although I suppose that there will be little hope of that when he comes to your bed.”

“And why would he do that?” They'd spoken briefly the night before, about her being with child, but Lyanna had been half asleep at that point and almost drifted off on her couch. “There is no need, now.”

Dacey tucked at a knot a little too hard. “The marriage bed is good for more than making heirs, as I am very sure you know – unless I am overestimating the prince's skills in that regard.”

Mildly scandalised, Lyanna caught her eye in the mirror. “I would rather you did not speak of what you think about my husband's abilities between the sheets, my lady.”

Dacey didn't seem chastised in the least. “Do not blame me. I can assure you that near every woman in the Seven Kingdoms – and quite a few men as well – thinks about how our Lord Regent would do in bed. That being said, I can hardly imagine that this is why you are doubtful he will return to yours.”

Lyanna studied her own face in the mirror. The evening before, she'd looked half dead, though this had vastly improved. “I am sure he spent last night in Elia's.”

“Which would mean it is your turn next.” Dacey pushed a section of combed hair over Lyanna's shoulder.

“I am merely unsure if he will _want_ to”, she said, and all spilled out. “It is such a strange situation, and right after we were wed, and with the way he _was_ in bed, I thought he might love me. But so much time has passed, and even before we were separated he spent the last night with Elia, and now the first – and I do not blame him for that; she was there before me and they love each other very deeply. Now that I am with child, there is no more reason why I should be intruding, and perhaps hurting what they have.”

Dacey was silent for a moment. “Forgive me, Your Grace”, she then said, “but listen to yourself. ‘Oh no, I thought my husband the almost-king loved me because everything he has said and done makes me and all others believe that he does, and our wedding was so much like a song that all other maids in Westeros will now hold impossibly high expectations for their own – but then he spent two whole nights with his other wife, which must clearly mean that he does not care for me.’” Lyanna was about to spin around to her, but Dacey held her head in place and kept combing. “Time and distance will not have made him want you less, princess. It will all be well.”

She stared at her through the mirror. “I suppose I did need to hear that, though I would have appreciated a tone that was less...”

“Insolent?”, Dacey suggested. “I will not mince words with you, and I suspect you are in a foul mood because of your child. Another thing you share with my lady mother.”

After a knock, Emy appeared in the door to her bedchamber. She had been with Ned's retainers after all, and now appeared quite flustered. “M'la – Your Grace. His Grace is here.”

Dacey gave her a meaningful look and handed her the comb, then strode out of the room despite a slight limp. “Come in!”, Lyanna called out.

Rhaegar did, and she began to work on the rest of her hair. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

He repeated her words, and she could see him look through the room. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you.” It occurred to her that he was fully dressed for court, all red and black and velvet, and she merely in a thin shift.

Oh well. He'd seen her more naked than that. “Have you eaten?” He sat on her bed, and Lyanna kept her gaze fixed on the mirror. She was completely unsure as to how she should act.

“Not yet.” A good thing that the bowl of sick was gone. “I do not feel very well in the mornings, these days.”

“I am sorry to hear that. We will be able to find something that helps.” He stretched his hand out to her and revealed a silver brooch with a white crystal that seemed very familiar. “I also have this for you.”

“Elia has the same”, she said, taking it.

“It is dedicated to the Mother. I know you do not follow the Seven, but -”

“Thank you.” Lyanna turned it in her hands, noting that a sigil had been etched into the mounting at the back. She'd seen that before, too; in the seven-pointed star at Summerhall. At the front, tiny dragons and wolves were engraved into the metal. “I will wear it every day.”

She saw him nod out of the corner or her eye, and finished with her hair, which meant she had to turn to him.

Rhaegar smiled at her when she did. “It is good to have you here, Lyanna. I hope it is not all too unfamiliar.”

“Oh, Ned is here, and Lady Dacey, and even my old maid. I should like to explore the castle, however.”

“Of course. Just avoid the floors above us; the king is there, and shouting a lot. He complains that he is cold, but we have had to take all ways of making fire away from him after he tried to burn down all of Maegor's. Twice.”

Lyanna winced. “Will you keep him here forever?”

“I have not yet decided.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He could be sent to Dragonstone once Lord Baratheon sees reason, but then I would have to send some of the Kingsguard with him so it does not appear as if I am purposefully putting him in danger. Either way, he will need to be kept alive for as long as possible to avoid any suspicion, and his state does not make that easy. I would not be surprised if he decided he was a dragon and jumped.” Rhaegar glanced out of the window, as if expecting to see his father fly past.

Lyanna had never seen the king and felt quite curious, but was not sure if she could bear actually encountering him. “He tried to have you _killed._ His own son!”, she said, remembering to be outraged about it. And something else: “The note we received at Summerhall said you had a scar.”

“Oh, yes.” His fingers went to his high collar. “Do not be too shocked. Elia actually cursed when she saw it.”

“That sounds unlike her.” When Lyanna saw, however, it made sense. “It is quite gruesome”, she observed.

“I know.” Rhaegar sounded... pleased? “I think it makes me look more intimidating.”

She considered that. “Perhaps. I have never thought of you in that way, but others might.”

“Some should”, he said. “Speaking of that, we are meant to discuss several pressing issues soon, and I would suggest you dress.” He stood and pulled her to her feet, and she felt his eyes look down on her. “Although I quite appreciate this.”

His gaze sent a pleasant shiver down her spine, emboldening her: “Then you should come to me tonight.”

There was a smirk, and a certain glint in his eyes. “I was hoping you would say that.” He put a hand under her chin, placed a kiss upon her cheekbone, and made to leave. Lyanna swallowed.

“Do come into my solar when you have dressed”, Rhaegar said.

In there shortly after, Lyanna found Elia, Rhaegar, Prince Oberyn, and Lord Connington. Ned and Lord Arryn weren't there.

Luckily, there was a small breakfast, as Lyanna was beginning to grow hungry. Elia poured her the sharp-smelling tea she'd often seen her drink.

She felt reminded of when they'd first exchanged their stories at Harrenhal, though as it emerged, this meeting would lead to more difficult decisions. “Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon”, Rhaegar said, “worked against us with my father. Lord Lannister has tried to kill me and abduct my wives. Lord Baratheon is laying siege on Dragonstone, which he began with the intent to do the same; and he attempted to kill me during our duel.”

It did not feel appropriate to be eating while discussing this, but Lyanna feared that her stomach might begin to rumble, and had to take a pastry. It was wonderfully buttery, and filled with jam.

“I know you are tired of me suggesting this”, Prince Oberyn said, peeling a blood orange, “but poison really is an option.”

A small flake from the pastry got stuck in Lyanna's throat, making her cough. “Are you truly proposing that we poison Lord Baratheon, my lord?”

“I am.” Juices from the orange ran down his fingers as he tore apart the segments. “And Lord Tywin. It may be distasteful to you, Your Grace, but both these men must die, and this way would be safe, elegant, and would not risk putting anyone else's life at stake.”

It was also dishonourable, and would mean killing Ned's foster brother. She had a sip of the tea (which _was_ sharp, though sweetened with honey), and said: “What if they – more likely, Lord Lannister – come to King's Landing and swear fealty to Rhaegar? We cannot murder someone after they have said such a vow. That is oathbreaking.”

“Not necessarily.” Rhaegar wasn't eating, but held a steaming cup with lemon tea. “A false vow hardly counts. Of course, he will deny everything; will claim that Ser Gregor acted on his own behalf. Perhaps he will offer to punish Clegane's family in some way, so as to make it seem that he is taking responsibility for his bannerman. But I will be unable to prove him wrong, and his involvement with Pycelle supplying the poison cannot be proven at all.”

Elia discretely removed an olive pit from her mouth. “Both these men have committed crimes against us – ones grave enough to warrant death.”

“An execution should follow a trial”, Lyanna pointed out, no longer interested in her pastry.

“We gave no trial to the men we had killed on the road. There was no need, because their guilt was obvious. We know that Lord Tywin has sent men to abduct us. We know that Lord Robert is currently in open rebellion, as I doubt that our raven has not reached him.”

She wasn't wrong. Yet, it didn't sit right with Lyanna. “Then they should be imprisoned, the sentence spoken, and their deaths a beheading.”

“I should quite like to see both their heads on spikes.” Lord Connington cut an apple in half with a quick motion. That, too, essentially amounted to oathbreaking, as Lord Robert was his liege – though Rhaegar was Robert's. “If Lord Lannister is imprisoned and executed, we may well face a rebellion in the Westerlands. And Robert Baratheon will never come here, so we would need to march on Storm's End. We would win in both circumstances, and appear stronger for it.”

Rhaegar shook his head. “At what cost? War is no game. Only the two of them need to die.”

Connington quartered the apple. “And how could we poison Baratheon? I am no expert, but I do believe that one needs access to the victim.”

“There are other ways.” Prince Oberyn took his time sucking at an orange segment. “Though they are more dangerous. In Qohor, I was told of a ritual that can cause an enemy to die by making his heart stop beating, though I would need some time to research the details, and believe that there is a significant risk to it.”

“What risk?”, Elia asked, helping herself to a piece of cheese. Lyanna wasn't sure how everyone could be eating while debating murder.

“Death.” Oberyn shrugged. “I would be curious to try.”

“No”, his sister said. “You will not risk your life out of _curiosity._”

Finished with his orange, he leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands on a cloth. “It would not be the first time.”

An idea began to form in Lyanna's mind. If Prince Oberyn believed that sorcery could accomplish the task, then perhaps there were other ways as well. More legitimate ones, in a sense.

Both Martells were looking to Rhaegar. “I should not want to risk your death. You may begin to gather information; there is no harm in that.” His hand was clasped around a silver cup with the steaming tea, as if the metal wasn't too hot to touch. “There must be something else we can do.”

“There might be”, she said, and all heads turned to her. Lyanna couldn't believe that she was about to suggest this, but then again, they weren't wrong that justice would demand Lord Robert's death. “I know that the gods – the _old _gods – can cause someone to die if they will it, and if sufficient sacrifice is made.”

“What kind of sacrifice?” Rhaegar had set down his cup.

That was the question. “I could not say, but I can pray on it. It might be made more difficult by the lack of weirwoods, but if you had visions in this godswood, then there is a presence.” She picked the pastry back up. “Of course, if the gods do not want him to die, then it will not work.”

“It is worth finding out”, Rhaegar decided. “I maintain that poison will be the best way to handle Lord Tywin, assuming that he does heed my summons. Oberyn, I trust that you know of an option or two.”

“Preferably a slow and painful one”, Lord Connington added, and Prince Oberyn flashed him a terrifying grin.

“It will be agonising”, he promised.

Not long after, Lyanna walked the godswood with Ned. Elia had told her not to mention their plans to him, but she'd known that much. There was an obvious reason that neither he nor Lord Arryn had been there, and looking back, she found it slightly surprising that she'd been invited herself.

They trusted her. It was good to be included in such things; not told that she shouldn't concern herself with difficult matters. But did it mean she was now closer to her husband's family than her own; plotting the murder of her brother's old friend?

“I can feel them”, Ned said, and she agreed. The Red Keep's godwood was nothing like Winterfell's, with its different trees and flowers and river view, but the gods' presence was clear.

They approached the heart tree; a great oak overgrown with red berry vines, just as Rhaegar and Elia had described it.

“This is where the gods told them about me”, she said, looking for a spot to sit in between the equally red flowers covering the tree's roots. “And good thing they did, or things might not have worked out the same way.”

Ned sat, which was easier for him as he was wearing grey instead of white. “You know, all this time I have wondered: why did you never tell us?”

Lyanna sighed, settling on a spot. Clothes could be cleaned. “I did tell all of you that I could not wed Lord Robert, though it took a number of years to make you believe me. What do you think Mother and Father would have said if I claimed I had to have Rhaegar's child instead? It would have seemed impossible. They would have thought me a young girl with delusions of becoming queen.”

Ned was quiet for a moment, looking up the tree. There was a gap in the vines, red stains upon it resembling a weirwood's face. “Still. It was a shock. I was afraid Bran would try and do something rash; perhaps attack His Grace.”

“I would say Ser Arthur's presence helped with that. As did Lord Robert casting doubts upon my honour.”

Her brother looked sad. “In the end, it was his that should have been questioned. And now... gods, Lya, _you are with child_.”

She had to laugh at his shock. “Yes, dearest Ned, that is what happens when -”, she realised with horror what she'd almost said, “people wed. It was rather the point of it all.”

Lyanna felt her face burning, and his was red as well. Ned cleared his throat. “I had not imagined I would be an uncle to your child before Bran's.”

“He might not make us wait for very long. I am sad we missed his wedding, and still have not met our good-sister.” She wondered what Catelyn Tully was like, and how she found Winterfell. After having seen the Riverlands, Lyanna thought it would have to be quite an adjustment.

Then again, every marriage was, she supposed. “We will, in time”, Ned said. “Perhaps with a niece or nephew. Have you written to Winterfell?”

“I will”, she said with a pang of guilt. To be fair, she'd only just arrived at the Red Keep. “Will you stay here for a while? I would like you to. We could find you some sort of position. Father would love that, and I am not the only one who wants you to remain.”

“If you want me to stay, I will”, he replied. “In truth, Father did instruct me to find a reason to be here, as he would rather you had someone to protect you.”

Lyanna found that slightly absurd. “I have the finest knights in the realm to protect me, as well as the gold cloaks, soon a new household guard of our own – and my husband does know how to use a sword.”

“I know he does. I have seen him use it.” Ned seemed troubled. “None of these people are there to protect you from the royal family, Lya.”

He recoiled at the look she gave him. “I _am_ part of the royal family, brother mine. They are yours as well. The only one of them who would do me harm is the king, and he is hardly in a position to do _anything._”

Ned didn't meet her eyes. “It might be difficult for you to believe, but the Princess Elia has every reason to -”

“No.” She was sick of this; from the way the northern ladies had warned her before her wedding to even Dacey's initial mistrust. “That is not who she is, and I know her far better than you do.” She took a deep breath. “I do not require your protection, but I would like your company here. So would the Lady Ashara.”

Ned blushed once more, looking down onto the flowers. “Has she”, he hesitated, “said anything?”

Lyanna grinned. “She might have. I had not been aware that the two of you had become so close at Harrenhal.”

His intense embarrassment almost made her feel sorry for him. “We spoke quite often.”

“I gathered as much. Well, she is unpromised, and would make an interesting match. Two of the most ancient bloodlines in Westeros – I can hardly imagine either family objecting.”

Ned picked a flower. “I do not stand to inherit anything. Besides, I do not know if she will _want_ to wed me.”

That was also funny, though in a way that made her feel quite bitter. Her family hadn't cared much about her not wanting to marry Lord Robert, after all. “Bran will give you a keep somewhere; you know that, and you may well earn a position at court. You will have incomes. If you would like to know what she wants, you will need to find out.” Lyanna shrugged. “Court her.”

“As if I was going to start singing her songs and writing her poems”, Ned said, and she had to admit that the thought was absurd.

“Well, you know. Do it your way; whatever it is men do to win over ladies. I would not know.” Although, looking back at the first night at Harrenhal, she thought that Rhaegar had, in fact, sung her a song. “I do not think you will need to do much, however.”

Ned was silent, looking at the flower. “Does he treat you well?”, he then asked.

_Yes. He is concerned for my well-being, makes my knees go weak when he looks at me a certain way, and includes me in his murder plots_. “Exceedingly. You truly need not be so suspicious; if I had complaints, then I would voice them.”

“You would. Still – he seems like a complicated man. I do not know what to make of him, even if that matters little.”

Was Rhaegar complicated? She wasn't sure. “He will do anything to save the realm; first from his father, and then from the Others. Things are quite simple in that way.”

Ned nodded slowly, then looked up to the sky and rose. “Well, speaking of men I am uncertain about, I am due to spar with Prince Oberyn and Lord Connington. I suspect it might be intended as some sort of power play.”

“You may be right. Good luck; I will remain here to pray.”

Remembering Rhaegar and Elia's accounts of their visions in this godswood, Lyanna plucked a berry after kneeling before the tree. It did taste like she imagined weirwood sap would.

_Dear gods_, she thought with her hand against the bark, _gods of all this realm; of the forests and plains and rivers. It is I, Lyanna Stark. I have wed the Dragon Prince and bear his child, as you commanded_.

She could feel them, though they seemed to come from far away. _Stark_, they replied. _Blood of Winterfell_.

_Yes. I thank you for your help in marrying the prince, but now I must ask you for more. The Stag Lord is our enemy. I beg of you, oh gods, to end him._

The visions they sent her were almost as vicious as those of the Others. People who looked like her cutting throats before weirwoods; hanging entrails upon branches. Men with bronze and iron crowns wiping their bloody swords – no, not any sword; Ice – on corpses, stacking heads as the trees greedily sucked blood into the earth.

_Enemy_, the gods said, _death. Blood, blood, blood_.

She felt hot, berries bursting beneath her fingers, their juice flowing down the trunk. _What sacrifice do you require?_

_Death_. A dragonglass dagger opening throat after throat; Ice slicing through neck after neck. Men being strung up by their feet and bleeding out like pigs.

_Whose death?_ She couldn't be asked to kill somebody she knew. _Please, gods, do not demand anyone I cannot give you_.

The men she saw die were often clad in simple armour, Lyanna realised. Enemy soldiers, most likely. _For the deaths of lords, of kings_, the gods confirmed.

The iron taste of the berry felt overwhelming; made her think she could smell what she saw in the visions. _So it makes no matter who it is?_

_Blood, power_. In an unfamiliar godswood, a man with pale blue eyes stripped the skin off an enemy with grey ones. _More power, less death. Less power, more death._

She thought she understood. _And if there is enough sacrifice given, the Stag Lord will die?_

_Enemies die. You see, Stark._

That was good enough for her. _Thank you, gods. Sacrifice will be made._

Lyanna took her hand away from the tree, and stared at the juice upon it. Blood on her hands – how appropriate.

How could she do this? She'd promised it to the gods now; there was no going back. She'd ordered deaths before, as she knew her lord father would have, and many generations of her ancestors before them. Most of the men she'd seen killing just now had been of her House, that was obvious.

She wiped her hands in the grass. She was Lyanna Stark, a descendant of the Kings of Winter. She wouldn't be the first of her line to do this, nor the last, and she had to be strong to defend her child, her family, and the realm.

They were in a large city, she concluded, standing on uncertain legs. There had to be criminals to be found – and in the end, what difference did it make if they were to be executed in the godswood or somewhere else? That was merely what her father did back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many lewd/snide comments to be made about Rhaegar getting to sleep with both Elia and Lyanna but there. Isn't. Anyone. To make them. Oberyn obviously would, but Elia's still his sister; Ned doesn't want to contemplate the thought, JonCon would just make himself sad, the Kingsguard and Jon Arryn are too classy. Mace and the Blackfish are also there, but it doesn't seem like them and they're not on sufficiently familiar terms.


	33. 23/07/281 – Elia

_King's Landing, three days after the arrival of the Princesses Elia and Lyanna_

They rode down Aegon's High Hill at a stately pace. Elia was glad to be better groomed this time than on the day of their arrival, and thought they all looked quite splendid – Rhaegar at the front, Viserys sitting before him on his horse, and then Queen Rhaella, Lyanna, and herself, as well as most of the Kingsguard. They'd found a tiara for Lyanna, though Elia thought that she could use one designed for her, so as to fit in with her usual jewellery and colouring. She resolved to ask Lord Eddard about her nameday.

They could see Rhaegar point and tell Viserys about the city. Behind them, the queen was reminiscing after not having left the Red Keep for years.

“See, there used to be a seamstress in that house, and a goldsmiths' over there”, she said as they wound their way down. “And a bakery nearby; much closer than the Street of Flour. Before my wedding, I would go there often with Princess Mynara and Lady Joanna, and we would buy custard tarts still hot from the oven before Mynara would try to spur us on to some sort of mischief.”

“Mischief?” Elia tried to imagine a younger, more carefree Rhaella laughing with her lady mother. “That does not sound like the mother I knew.”

“I believe she took things much more seriously once rulership passed on to her, as one should.” She turned to Lyanna, who looked at the narrow buildings with much fascination. “Many find the city overwhelming at first, but you will come to know it quickly enough.”

“I would hope so. Gods, I cannot believe that half a million people live here. There must be so much to see!”

So they showed her, at least the things that could be seen on the way down Shadowblack Lane, on the most central streets, and up Visenya's Hill to the Great Sept of Baelor. All throughout, they made sure to smile and wave at their subjects, give coin to beggars and children, and thank them for any blessings and well-wishes.

They dismounted on the plaza before the Great Sept. Rhaegar had just helped Elia off her horse and was telling Lyanna and Viserys about King Baelor's great statue when a woman approached her. She looked like one of the middling sort, likely the wife of an artisan or craftsman, and handed her a small bunch of flowers.

Elia thanked her graciously and was ready to turn towards the sept, but the woman put a hand on her arm. This prompted Lewyn to come a few steps closer, watching suspiciously.

“Dear princess”, the woman said, looking at her with earnest eyes, “there are many here in the city who mean Your Grace well, I hope you know that. A lot of the men think that what he did was right”, she shot a glance at Rhaegar, who was pointing out the sept's seven bell towers, “but a lot of us women are with you. It is a disgrace, if you will forgive me for saying, and while you carry his child as well.”

_Oh no_, Elia thought. She should have predicted that much. “Goodwoman”, she placed her hand atop the other's, “I thank you for your concern, but it is not needed. There is no disgrace in this. Lyanna!” She saw her turn around, somewhat startled, and Elia waved her close. “Come here, dear sister.”

A flash of confusion crossed her face at the nickname, and the woman who'd given Elia the flowers was taken aback. “But to take a second wife is an affront to the gods -”

“It is not, goodwoman. In fact, we have come here to receive the High Septon's blessing. Will this put your mind to rest?”

“Well, if His High -” Lyanna had reached them, and the woman fell silent. Elia was beaming and untied the band holding the stems together, thinking that this was much like Harrenhal. “Dearest Lyanna, this kind woman has just come to give me flowers. Of course, all that is mine is yours as well.” She handed her half the bunch.

The woman looked back and forth between them, visibly puzzled. Then she stammered a goodbye, curtseyed, and hurried away.

“What was that?”, Lyanna asked, looking at the flowers. Elia told her and Rhaegar while they made their way up to the sept, leaving the Kingsguard outside.

“This is the reason we must all show ourselves in public”, their husband concluded. “Together.”

They entered the Hall of Lamps, and she heard Lyanna sigh in wonder. A septon was just leaving through the Father's Door and stopped in his tracks when he saw them, though Rhaegar only gave him a polite nod as he strode through the same entrance. Lyanna made to follow, but Elia took her by the arm, and they went through the Mother's Door with Rhaella and Viserys.

“It is _beautiful_”, Lyanna whispered when they descended the seven steps, gazing at the huge gilded statues and colourful domed ceiling. “This is where you were wed?”

“Yes. Right there.” Elia pointed at the space between the Mother and Father, remembering the pomp and splendour of the ceremony, and how she'd stood there wondering who Rhaegar was and what their marriage would bring.

Safe to say, she hadn't expected it to turn out quite the way it did, but not all surprises were bad.

Their arrival was noted by all present in the sept, most of them the faithful who'd come to pray, though there was some of the clergy as well. Rhaegar met them at the bottom of the stairs, smiled down at the stunned and wide-eyed Viserys (a prince who, at the age of five, visited the Great Sept for the first time), then broke the silence by calling out to a member of the Most Devout, who'd just been passing through.

“Septa Norella!” The old woman stopped halfway towards the statue of the Crone, and bowed. “We would like to speak to the High Septon, so he may bless our marriage.”

There were some murmurs at that, though she couldn't tell what was being said. The septa merely bowed again and hurried off, hopefully to fetch the Shepherd of the Faithful.

Quietly, the queen took Viserys by the hand and walked him to the statue of the Smith. “What shall we do if he makes us wait?”, Elia asked, keeping her voice down.

“Speak to his flock”, Rhaegar replied. Lyanna was still studying the interior with fascination; taking in how people kneeled and muttered to the statues. A young septon was reading from the Seven-Pointed Star to several children, two girls were lighting candles before the Maiden, and a hunchbacked old man sat quietly at the feet of the Stranger.

People had resumed their activities, though Elia could feel that all were watching them with one eye. If Lyanna hadn't been there, she would've gone to pray before the Mother to show piety, but she could hardly leave her here to stand by herself.

The High Septon, it emerged, had no intention of drawing things out. He appeared at the Father's Door; a thin old man whose figure did not betray his ostentatious wealth and taste, though the crystal crown he wore somewhat diminished any illusion of humility.

They quietly watched as he deliberately descended the stairs and approached them, finally bowing slightly. “Your High Holiness”, Rhaegar said with a dip of his head, and immediately, all attention returned to them.

“Your Graces”, the man replied. His demeanour was calm, but his eyes shifted all around. “What brings you here?”

“You may have heard that I have wed. I should like your blessing for my marriage.”

The High Septon tried to incline his head, but couldn't go very far without risking his crown falling off. “But you already have it, my prince. I wed you in this very place.”

Rhaegar's smile could've cut those crystals apart. “You have not heard, then. I have a second wife, the Princess Lyanna.” He pointed towards her.

“Your Grace...” The High Septon opened his hands and took a few steps away, clearly speaking to those watching. “The gods tell us that a godly marriage takes place between one man and one wife, and no more than that. That is why we pray to the Father and the Mother; not Mother_s_.” His eyes went over the faithful. “I could not possibly give my blessing to a polygamous marriage, and much less to one that was conducted in a savage ritual before a tree.”

Elia caught Lyanna's gaze as she opened her mouth, and her look must have sufficed to tell her to hold her tongue. That was good, because she appeared absolutely furious.

There was a glint in Rhaegar's eye, and then he began. She was sure he'd been mentally rehearsing this for some time.

As he had in that inn, he referenced that exceptionalist doctrine held that incest was a grave sin for all but House Targaryen, and that the same should count for polygamy, considering that Aegon the Conqueror himself had landed with two wives, and been crowned in the Starry Sept. He spoke of the legitimacy of his old gods wedding, pointing out that the acceptance of several faiths in Westeros was a long-held and cherished principle assuring the stability of the realm, and that marriages of all faiths had always been recognised by the others.

He further pointed out that there wasn't a single passage in the Seven-Pointed Star that actually defined how many people there should be in a marriage, and that since many families consisted of more than one mother or father figure – a grandparent being present, for instance, or an unwed aunt or uncle – it was quite rare for any of them to exemplify the rigid structure of one Mother and one Father. Did the texts not, in several passages, make reference to “wives”? Had the Most Devout of old not suspected that Hugor of the Hill's four-and-forty sons had in fact come from a number of mothers, considering that no one woman alone could ever bear that many children?

“Does it not say”, Rhaegar concluded, “in the Stranger's Book that he who dares to enter a holy sept after having committed a grave sin, and with no intention of doing penance, will be struck down by the gods themselves?” He faced the statue of the Stranger. “I see no sin in my marriage, and have nothing to confess or repent.”

Elia briefly contemplated how absurd it would be if he did drop dead now, but of course he didn't. The High Septon assessed the expressions of all the onlookers, briefly closed his eyes, and cleared his throat. “Your Grace. Perhaps we should continue this conversation in private.”

She heard Lyanna snort, and couldn't blame her.

His High Holiness gave a long, exhausted sigh as they entered a room on the upper levels of the building. It appeared to be his study and was exquisitely furnished, as well as providing a pretty view of Baelor's statue through stained glass windows.

He waved the three of them towards a set of mahogany chairs with cloth-of-gold upholstery, then placed his crown upon a damask pillow. “Wine, Your Graces?”, he asked, already pouring what looked like Arbor Gold into a crystal cup.

“Only for myself”, Rhaegar said. He subscribed to the idea that a woman with child should not drink, quite possibly something he'd heard from Archmaester Marwyn, and Elia found the argument convincing enough.

What was more, the Redwynes could keep their sugar-laced piss (as Oberyn would call it).

“Well.” The High Septon sat, handing Rhaegar wine and the two of them water. “In all honesty, my prince, I would have preferred a less public conversation from the very beginning.”

“You could have come to the castle, then. I have been there for quite some time.”

The man took a deep sip. “Be that as it may. The fact of the matter is, Your Grace, I cannot bless your marriage. What would that look like?”

“Like you are a good friend to the Lord Regent”, Elia said. “The man who will likely rule this realm for many decades to come.” She leaned back in the chair, a hand on her belly. “Your High Holiness can hardly want an impasse lasting this long.”

He shrugged. “I do not, but I am not the one who decided to take a second wife in some savage northern -”

Lyanna set her cup down with a clang, quite possibly causing a crack. “If you call my gods savage one more time, I will turn into a wolf and eat you.”

Elia had to control her face to show no surprise. Lyanna did look murderous, with eyes hard and grey as steel.

The High Septon, meanwhile, appeared quite unsettled. She saw his eyes nervously dart to Rhaegar, who shrugged with indifference. “They do have some very strange rites in the North.”

One of which was planned for this very night. “I did not want to cause offence”, he said, eyeing Lyanna, “but it must be understood that much of the people will see it this way.”

“Luckily, Your High Holiness is quite capable of swaying their opinion”, Elia pointed out. “Your blessing would contribute to peace and stability in the realm; easing the transition into this new era of regency and, later, our royal husband's reign.”

“It remains ungodly.” The High Septon had finished his wine, and rose to pour himself more.

“It does not.” Rhaegar was swirling the Gold around in his glass. “I do not like to repeat myself, though I should add one argument: If the Voice of the Seven on Earth proclaims this marriage to be godly, then it is.”

They heard the man chuckle, returning to his seat. “I did not know Your Grace placed so much importance on the teachings professed directly by the Faith, rather than ignoring us in favour of the most obscure early septons, syncretism, and heresy.”

That amused Rhaegar, and Elia was glad that this wasn't the fanatical sort of High Septon. “Truth be told, I do not care for your approval in the slightest; I already know that my marriage is legitimate. It was demanded by gods, in fact, though not by yours or mine.”

When his eyes returned to Lyanna, she seemed to be just slightly snarling. “It was also accepted”, Elia continued, “by most lords of the realm. I am sure that Your High Holiness in your infinite wisdom will know that these are not the best odds to go up against.”

“What I am wondering is”, the High Septon said, then savoured a sip, “what _will_ happen if I continue to refuse? Will Your Grace behead me, like Maegor the Cruel?”

“As it happens, there will be executions at the Red Keep tonight”, Rhaegar said. “But of course, we are simply emptying out the black cells, and I would not want to subject a man of the gods to such treatment.” He took a small sip. “Especially one that provides me with such fine wine. My wives prefer dry reds and dark ales, but I quite enjoy this as well. Was it a gift from Lord Redwyne, or did the gods tell Your High Holiness to spend the Faith's coin on such luxuries?”

“A gift.” The High Septon's smile was strained. “Though the gods have long maintained that their representative on this plane must live a life of comfort so he may focus all his efforts on spiritual matters.”

“Surely, we could help with that”, Elia said. There was exactly one thing they couldn't complain about regarding Aerys' reign, and that was that he'd hardly spent any coin. There were many cases in which he should have, but it left them with comfortably full coffers nonetheless. “If there is anything the Faith needs, the Crown will be glad to provide it. Let us suggest this: We take our leave now, matters unresolved, and Your High Holiness spends the night in prayer. After many hours, you will hear the Father's voice, proclaiming that my royal husband's marriage to the Princess Lyanna was a rare, exceptional case and the will of the gods. On the morrow, you will send someone to the Red Keep to fetch us, and then perform the blessing.”

“Alternatively”, Rhaegar said, nodding to Lyanna, “wolves.”

She was still looking at the High Septon as if she was about to tear him apart. “My gods have never fully forgiven the Andals.”

Elia shuddered. She wasn't sure if she'd have taken her threats seriously if she hadn't known what was bound to happen tonight. The High Septon seemed more easily convinced, uncomfortable as he appeared.

He nodded towards the windows, which distorted the view of the plaza with its colours. “I need something else, Your Graces, to appease the Most Devout, and the people in the countryside. You could donate to build a sept or two.”

“Certainly.” Rhaegar finished his cup. “Three, in fact; where-ever you would like them, though you should not expect anything grand. As long as the septons there do not preach against their Lord Regent, that is.”

The other man hummed. “I see. Beyond that, however, there is another issue at hand – you must forgive me for saying this, Your Grace, but there are many who take you for a kinslayer. The king has not been seen since you have returned to the Red Keep, after all. I could not give my blessing to one who has killed his own father.” At the look Rhaegar gave him in response, the High Septon quickly added: “Which I am certain you have not. Still, it would need to be proven.”

“The king lives.” Rhaegar looked annoyed. “If Your High Holiness would like, you are welcome to come and see him yourself.” He still hadn't spoken to him, Elia knew; not once.

The High Septon sighed once more. “I will. We have an agreement, then. However, if Your Graces hear of my sudden and tragic death in the coming weeks, you will know that the Most Devout disapproved.”

“Your gods have chosen a rather poor representative on earth”, Lyanna concluded when they'd returned to the castle. They'd spent several hours in the city beforehand, visiting an orphanage where Rhaegar sang for the children before buying a shawl for Elia from a tailor shop, taking their luncheon at an inn, visiting a goldsmiths to order them a matching set of bracelets, and acquiring a tiny practice sword for Viserys in the Street of Steel. None of this was necessary; they had all the craftsmen they needed in the Red Keep, but it was good to be seen in the city.

“The gods and the High Septon do not have much to do with each other”, Rhaegar said. They had watched the Lords Staunton, Chelsted, and Merryweather leave from a balcony. The latter would go to the Wall, the other two were to be sent back home – having all three in the Watch bore its own risks.

“Well, clearly. He is cowardly and corrupt.” Lyanna's disgust was clear as she leaned on the balustrade. “This is why my gods do not have priests.”

“But is it not good for us that he is the way he is?”, Elia asked her. “Perhaps _that_ was the gods' design.”

Lyanna blinked, considering that possibility. Behind the carriages taking away the three lords, several carts followed, moving slowly, their contents cushioned by several heavy bags of sand.

The removal of Aerys' wildfire stashes had been going on ever since Rhaegar had taken control, though it was a slow process. He didn't want any cart to contain much of it.

The alchemist's guild was being moved outside the city walls, so as to mitigate the danger wildfire posed within it. Their leader, Rossart, was to die, as was Pycelle – though the latter would only officially pass at some point in the coming weeks, allegedly taking his own life in the black cells.

Though the king had much enjoyed executing half the castle, he'd left the black cells untouched; likely because he saw no danger to himself coming from the criminals therein. This night in the godswood, they faced a distinctly northern kind of justice.

The moon and two torches provided the only source of light. They did not want anyone in the castle to know of their deed, and the Kingsguard stood at every point of entry. On the clearing before the heart tree, Elia and Oberyn watched as Lyanna sat praying before the oak and Rhaegar took the head of a murderer.

There presently was no King's Justice, though it appeared that Lyanna did not believe in using an executioner at all. She had even proposed carrying out all the executions herself, but had relented when they'd remarked that this required a certain amount of training, if one wanted to do it well.

When the first man's head and body had been separated, the blood vanished in nearly an instant. Elia exchanged a look with Oberyn, not daring to speak, but was certain they both thought the same: It was good to be on the side favoured by these gods.

Oberyn dragged the next criminal to the executioner's block and removed the bag they'd placed upon his head. The man took his surroundings in with terror, Rhaegar spoke the sentence, his head joined the other's.

Around them, trees were rustling. Lyanna was kneeling before the oak with her hands pressed onto the trunk, berries bursting beneath her fingers. Where Elia had once only seen the vague outline of the face, she was now sure it was staring straight at her, even through the darkness.

They'd selected seven common criminals to add to Rossart and Pycelle. With every one, the wind intensified until Elia had to gather her hair and stuff it into the collar of her cloak. She felt movement in the very soil under her feet, as if something was growing beneath it. Where Rhaegar should have been standing in a pool of blood, it vanished quickly.

By the time he got to Rossart, her husband resembled a vengeful being of the legends; less a Westerosi prince than a Valyrian dragonlord. Elia couldn't hear the alchemist's last words over the storm around them and the heavy pressure on her ears, but she could _see_. The soil truly was shifting, Rhaegar was moving as if entranced, Oberyn piled up the heads with a feral look on his face, and Lyanna now stood up between the grass and dragon's breath moving in the wind. Her face ran red with the berry juice, which _obviously_ was blood, and her eyes stuck out cold and grey. She held a large shard of dragonglass wrapped with leather on one end to form a hilt as Oberyn and Rhaegar brought a staggering Pycelle before her.

The High Septon had been right, in a way: this was savage. Still, Elia felt more awe than fear.

Pycelle's bag was removed and he looked around in panic. She couldn't even imagine what it must be like for him; having heard the sounds of the previous men dying and felt the wind around him, only to now see where he was, and who was with him, and that a young woman covered in blood was approaching him with a glistening black dagger.

Now Lyanna spoke, her voice booming as she sentenced him to die in Rhaegar's name for taking part in a conspiracy to kill him. Rhaegar held him in place as Lyanna slit his throat as if she'd done it a thousand times before, giving him to her gods. Justice was served, in more ways than one.

Then she held him by the hair while falling to her knees before the tree. The wind made Elia stumble, blowing out their torches and sounding much like a howl.

Not much later, as they sat in Rhaegar's solar with wine and ginger tea, all of it felt like a dream.

“Well, that was something”, Oberyn said. “I had not seen anything of the like since Qohor.”

Her husband was staring into his cup, a vacant look on him. “Are their rituals as bloody?”

“Worse, often.” They all looked to Lyanna, who had curled up in an armchair. She'd wiped her face clean, though the blood was still on her gown (wise of her to choose a simple one, Elia thought, as this one could never be saved). She appeared half asleep. “Will this certainly lead to Baratheon's death?”, Oberyn asked.

“Aye”, Lyanna murmured, holding onto her tea with weak fingers. Rhaegar gently took it, his eyes darting over her with concern. “How do you feel?”

“So _tired_.” She seemed to suppress a yawn and tried to rise, though she fell back into the chair. “I might just sleep here.”

“You will sleep in your bed.” He stood, also appearing uncertain in his step, and scooped her up into his arms. Rhaegar searched her eyes, Elia nodded, and he carried Lyanna outside.

“I hope he does not drop her”, she remarked as the door had closed behind them.

Oberyn had a deep sip of wine. “It is not far. Now – how is this”, he pointed to both sides of the room, where each of their chambers lay, “for you?”

She considered that, savouring the heat and sharp spice of her tea. “Surprisingly easy. We seem to have come to a silent understanding that he takes turns staying with each of us at night, and otherwise, I believe we work together well. I have grown quite fond of her besides.”

“And she of you, it would seem.” Her brother looked thoughtful. “I suppose you would not be the first in history to find joy in such an arrangement. I only hope Rhaegar knows he is the luckiest man on earth.”

“I hardly believe he counts himself lucky in many regards”, she said, finding herself longing for sleep as well, “but in this one – yes, I think he does.”


	34. 31/07/281 – Rhaegar

_King's Landing, the last day of the 7th moon of the year 281 AC_

“Oh, Mother's mercy”, Elia sighed, rubbing her lower back. “This is worse than the last time. I hope for your sake that your own son will not give you nearly as much trouble.”

“Another hot compress?”, Lyanna suggested as Rhaegar silently directed the servant to put another rasher of bacon on her plate, knowing she had recently been mad for anything heavily salted.

Elia shook her head as she sat. “I cannot move around with them. I wish I could strap them to my back, but they would merely cool down.”

They were breaking their fast together in his rooms; something that had quickly become a habit. Occasionally, his mother would join them with Viserys, though not today, while his good-brothers would require the women to be dressed in more than shifts and robes, and that would change their entire schedules.

“You do not need to move around quite as much as you do, my love”, Rhaegar told her, not for the first time, and broke off a piece of bread. “I understand you do not wish to miss anything, but a litter -”

“I am not lame”, she said. “Only pregnant. And we are experiencing too many new arrivals for me to begin being carried through the castle as if I was somehow incapable of walking.” She took a spoonful of Dornish eggs with peppers.

It was true – as Rhaegar had returned to the Red Keep more than a fortnight ago, the court was now filling up in earnest. The new appointments he'd made had brought lords, knights, and their families to King's Landing, while half the realm was throwing their daughters at his wives to make them ladies-in-waiting, and the nobles seemed to think that he needed about fifty squires at least.

Quellon Greyjoy had come and gone, professing his support for Rhaegar's regency and speaking at some length about his intention to improve relations with the mainland.

“Speaking of new arrivals”, Lyanna said, “the northern ladies should have boarded their ship at White Harbour last evening. I do not think that Lady Dacey is pleased.”

“I would not be either, if I were her.” Elia brushed her hair to the side, the curls falling freely. “She will no longer be the only one you confide in -”

“I confide in either of _you_ more than that”, Lyanna interrupted, but Elia went on: “... and she will no longer be as free to pursue her dalliances.”

At that, Lyanna dropped her bacon. “Her what?”

Rhaegar leaned back, blowing into his lemon tea. He loved the mornings, when he could see the two of them interact without formality.

Elia was grinning. “Has she not told you? Our lady of Mormont has been with near as many men in this castle as my dear brother. That is how I know – apparently, there has been some overlap among those who will lie with either sex. It appears there was one situation where the man had mistakenly told both to meet him at the same time, and while I am sure that either you or I would find this mortifying, Oberyn and Lady Dacey seemed to agree it was quite funny. To quote him, they then made the best of it.”

Lyanna was clearly struggling to process it all. “Prince Oberyn lies with men? And – are you implying he's been with _Dacey_?”

Elia chuckled, then took a sip of her tea. “Oberyn will quite happily lie with near anyone. As to him and Lady Dacey, I am not sure, as I always hear these tales without asking for them, and would rather not know of the details. Perhaps they did; perhaps they merely shared a cup of wine.”

Slowly shaking her head, Lyanna picked up a boiled egg. “You know, Ned told me yesterday that he is _thinking about_ asking Lady Ashara if she would like to have a meal in his rooms – with all of us present, of course.” She rolled her eyes. “He is quite boring compared to Prince Oberyn, is he not?”

The both of them laughed, and Rhaegar felt himself smiling. What could be more beautiful than this?

As if the gods had heard his thoughts, the door opened after a quick knock, and a red-haired boy entered with a silver tray in his hands. On it lay a parchment, which he presented to him with a bow.

“Thank you, Edmure”, Rhaegar said to his page. “Are you to train with Viserys this morning?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The Tully boy was only moons older than his brother, and he thought it was quite good for him to have other highborn boys of the same age around.

“Then you may go.” Edmure did. He had arrived with his sister, the Lady Lysa, only a few days ago. Although she was his brother's betrothed, their age difference meant that she was acting as a lady-in-waiting to his wives, while little Edmure did actually interact with Viserys quite a lot.

Rhaegar unfolded the parchment; a raven scroll bearing the sigil of Lord Rosby. As he read it, his smile widened, and he turned to Elia.

“A ship bearing the sun and spear on its sail has been seen passing Rosby”, he announced. “Rhaenys will arrive very soon.”

Elia made a sound of utter delight, and he agreed with the sentiment. For all the time and effort they'd spent making sure that he'd produce sons, he already had a child of his body, and they'd have her back before the day was done.

More news reached them before the Martell ship concluded its journey, and they, too, concerned impending arrivals. It had only taken a day for Lyanna's ritual to work, as Robert Baratheon had broken his neck after falling down the stairs at Storm's End. Rhaegar had been concerned that this would upset her, but she'd declared that his death had clearly been the will of the gods, and thus had been right.

Soon after, the now-Lord Stannis had surrendered Dragonstone. They'd found themselves impressed that he had even taken it despite having the Velaryon fleet at his back, but now Stannis was bound for King's Landing, and should reach it soon. In his letter, he'd declared his intent to swear fealty to Rhaegar as Lord Regent and make any amends he could.

Cersei, who had been close to Storm's End by the time of Robert's death, had already returned to the Red Keep. His men had graciously met her party in the Kingswood in order to “accompany” her; assuring that Lord Tywin couldn't play any tricks on them. He, meanwhile, had last been seen on the goldroad a day's ride from the capital, clearly having decided to heed Rhaegar's summons.

Well, Tywin, Stannis, and all the rest could be dealt with when they arrived. For now, they stood at the pier as they watched the captain of Prince Doran's guard descend the plank, carrying a squirming red bundle.

Rhaegar knew that it took Elia much self-restraint to not run towards their daughter. She stood perfectly still, smiling serenely, until the commander placed Rhaenys in her arms.

“Oh my sweet girl, you have grown _so much_.” She really had, though he supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Rhaenys smiled at her mother, and he could see tears in Elia's eyes. _“Teeth”_, she said. “Look, Rhaegar, she has a few teeth! And so much hair and -” A hand shot out from under the bundle and poked Elia's nose, making her laugh, then press Rhaenys close and kiss her head.

Rhaegar felt his heart swell. Did this not justify all he'd done and was to do? “Here, take her”, she said, handing him their daughter.

He hadn't seen many healthy babes in his life; save Viserys, all of his parents' children after him had been born sickly and died young. He didn't know if Rhaenys looked the way a child of eleven moons should, but she was perfect to him; like a tiny version of Elia with her black eyes and hair, staring at him as directly as only an infant could.

Rhaegar wondered if she recognised him at all. He was also quite sure that their long separation now wouldn't matter, as nobody remembered the first years of their lives. “Hello, princess”, he said, thinking: _Do you know I am your father? _She made a happy little sound, eyes widening and revealing what could be the slightest touch of purple. Perhaps she did know.

The Iron Throne really was the most uncomfortable seat in the Seven Kingdoms. It was meant to be that way, of course; the first Aegon had constructed it as both a boast of his power and a warning to his successors. As Rhaegar sat upon it to welcome the wayward lords, he thought his ancestor could have been slightly less heavy-handed with the metaphor, but perhaps subtlety wasn't always called for.

As if to further underline the point, his father had left the throne covered in blood, though it had been his own. Not long after he'd deposed him, Rhaegar had spent a night carefully cleaning it. This could've been left for the servants, but he thought it would serve for a nice detail to be included in the histories; the kind of thing a friendly maester might ascribe much importance to.

Tywin Lannister came before him in a splendid crimson surcoat heavily embroidered with gold, Stannis Baratheon wearing plain black wool. Rhaegar accepted their oaths with cold curtesy, though there was a certain satisfaction in it. Elia and Lyanna stood behind him on either side as the entire court was watching, forcing both to acknowledge not only his regency but also his marriage.

Afterwards, he called Lord Baratheon to his solar. Rhaegar had expected a younger version of Robert, though it was plain that this wasn't the case.

“Now, my lord”, he said, watching the man across the table. He was near as tall as his brother had been, but didn't have the same muscle, and stiff manners instead of Robert's bluster. “I am sorry for your loss, but pleased that you have heeded my summons. The fact that you have attacked and even taken my very own seat remains, however.”

Stannis nodded in apparent acknowledgement. “Robert was my liege and brother. He gave the command, and I had to obey. With him dead, it became my duty to obey the Crown.”

Both Oberyn and Jon thought that Lord Baratheon need be punished in some way; there'd even be a case for taking his head. This would lead to Storm's End passing to his young brother Renly, and thus being ruled by a castellan in truth, weakening House Baratheon for more than a decade.

Elia had disagreed. Stannis could be useful in more ways than one, as long as his loyalty could be assured. Rhaegar had ultimately decided to take her advice.

“Of course, Lord Robert would have argued that _he_ was obeying the Crown”, he pointed out. “My royal father had given the command.”

“The king no longer reigns”, Lord Baratheon said plainly. Rhaegar didn't know if he truly believed in the legitimacy of the Great Council's decision, murky as it was in terms of law, or if he was merely attempting to save his own skin. Either worked well enough for him.

He saw Lord Stannis' eyes flick down to his scar. He did better than most at not staring at it too often, but it was difficult to look away from. It was only for this occasion that Rhaegar had decided not to hide it. “I understand your reasoning, my lord. Lord Velaryon has informed me that Dragonstone has sustained little damage and you have spared its household, which does help your case. You are pardoned for this offence.” Lord Stannis looked as if he meant to say something, but Rhaegar pressed on. “I have the decree confirming you as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands right here. Needless to say, I would still appreciate an assurance of your loyalty. Your brother Renly is how old, now?”

“Five, Your Grace.”

“Splendid. I will take him on as a ward, and he will grow up alongside Viserys and Edmure Tully.”

There was no arguing with that, and Stannis replied with a simple Yes. Others might have called it an honour.

Rhaegar was far from done, however. “Next, it appears that your lord brother was betrothed to the Lady Cersei Lannister.”

Baratheon didn't hesitate before saying: “He was also betrothed to Lyanna Stark.”

He supposed he should've expected this issue being raised. “While that is true, I won the Princess Lyanna's hand in a duel with the blessing of her lord father. Lady Cersei remains unwed. As you are neither married nor promised, custom would dictate that you take her to wife.”

“The agreement was made”, Lord Stannis said. “I intend to honour it, though I have not yet had the opportunity to speak to Lord Lannister.”

No, and that had been by design. Rhaegar had given them chambers far away from each other, and made sure they were kept out of each other's paths. “Not to worry, my lord. I will assure that the promise is kept.” One should keep one's enemies close, after all. “As the lady is already here, the wedding could take place very soon.”

He thought Lord Stannis looked quite grim; not the way most men would when thinking of their imminent marriage to a maid of famed beauty. “That would seem reasonable, Your Grace.”

“Further, Lord Baratheon...” He leaned forward, curious to see how the other man would react. “Your taking of Dragonstone verged on treason, but was an impressive feat nonetheless. Lord Velaryon has told me much about it. For this reason, I should like for you to serve as master of war on my small council.”

There was a flicker of surprise, but nothing more. “I will serve, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar almost narrowed his eyes at him. Stannis Baratheon was not a man to be understood in one conversation, it seemed.

“Very well”, he said. “Now, lastly – it has come to my attention that there are strange rumours circulating about your lord brother's death.”

It had been inevitable, he supposed. It was really just too convenient, and Oberyn had told him that some thought he'd had his hands in it.

Lord Stannis, however, scoffed. “Fools will believe anything but the simplest of truths. Robert was a drunk with a bad leg and fell down the stairs, undoubtedly because he refused assistance when climbing them.”

Well, there was one thing Rhaegar now knew about him: He hadn't had much love for his brother.

There was another, however, who Rhaegar knew better. “Wine, my lord?”, he asked as Lord Tywin had entered his solar, and handed him a cup without waiting for a reply.

It wasn't poisoned. The poison Oberyn had chosen – some terrible concoction enchanted to work as slowly as possible – would be administered by a maid who his good-brother had taken as a lover and was serving Tywin's chambers.

As this was already the role he was playing, Rhaegar had decided to ask Oberyn to serve as master of whisperers, at least for a while. Ultimately, he knew he wanted to return to Dorne and his daughters, and one of his tasks would be to find a worthy replacement.

“We missed you at Harrenhal, my lord”, he began as they were both seated.

Lord Tywin's thinly veiled fury was a familiar sight. “I had not known of Your Grace's plans.”

A likely story. “How strange”, Rhaegar said, thinking the wine was quite sour. “All the other great lords had. Nevertheless, I am glad that you have come to recognise their decision.”

“The king was no longer fit to rule.” He hadn't been for years, and Tywin had known this and taken advantage of it; only abandoning him when the personal insults had grown too much to bear.

Would he have stayed at his father's side through the mass burnings? Rhaegar didn't think it below him. “On that, we agree”, he said. “Now, you and I have much to discuss. I have just spoken to Lord Baratheon, who is anxious to know whether you intend to honour your agreement with his brother.”

“My daughter was promised to Lord Robert. There is nothing left to honour.”

He wondered who else he thought to betroth Cersei too – there weren't many options left in Westeros, and Tywin didn't seem the type to look east. “It is customary to wed a maid to her late betrothed's brother”, Rhaegar pointed out. “My lord will be pleased to know that this Lord Baratheon, too, makes a good match. He will serve as master of war.”

This caused a slight shift in Tywin's demeanour. “You seek to reward the man who attacked your own seat with a position on the small council?”

“I will not punish a man for obeying his elder brother. Besides, he did very well in attacking it.” And had surrendered Dragonstone as soon as he'd heard of Robert's death. “As such, the Lady Cersei would be the wife of a Lord Paramount and master of war, here in the capital. I am sure Ser Jaime will be glad.” He had another sip, finding the second more to his liking. “I should say that your son has acted with honour all throughout this rather complicated situation.”

Lord Tywin slightly inclined his head. “Jaime is all I could have wanted in an heir.”

“Alas, he is not your heir any longer.” Anger flashed in Tywin's eyes. “I cannot change that, my lord; the Kingsguard serve for life, and to undo his appointment would be to create a dangerous precedent.”

There was a long pause in which it felt like Tywin was trying to kill him with his gaze alone. “Cersei will wed Lord Baratheon”, he finally said. “Does this conclude all business you have with me, Your Grace?”

_Not until your death._ “No. I do not know if you have heard, my lord, but there is something that bothers me greatly. On their journey back to the capital, my wives were set upon by a group of armed men, led by Ser Gregor Clegane. Your bannerman, was he not?”

Rhaegar thought it likely that Tywin hadn't known how exactly this had played out. “Clegane? Yes”, he said, with surprise that was feigned quite well. “I had not known this, but I must apologise. The Cleganes are upjumped kennelmasters; no more than rabid dogs. Ser Gregor is dead, then?”

“Slain by Ser Arthur.” He didn't think that Tywin really hoped to convince him, but was happy to play along. “You must better control your bannermen, my lord.”

“It appears so. I will have his brother punished accordingly.”

He likely would – anything to preserve the appearance that this hadn't been his order. Rhaegar looked at him for a moment, thinking with grim satisfaction that Tywin appeared slightly disconcerted.

He ran his finger along the scar on his neck. “Do you know how this happened, Lord Lannister?”

Tywin's eyes followed his hand. “I had heard Your Grace had been attacked by assassins.”

“Many”, Rhaegar said. “Only one group almost succeeded. They had been sent by my own royal father, their weapons poisoned with a substance provided by Grand Maester Pycelle.”

Something behind Tywin's eyes told him he knew that Rhaegar knew. “I assume Pycelle is dead?”

“I have not yet decided his fate – one would not want to upset the Citadel.” They'd announce his death in about a week. “It has always been well-known that Pycelle was a great admirer of your lordship. Can you assure me that this had nothing to do with you?”

“Of course not.” Tywin had a deep drink of his wine, which he hadn't touched thus far. “Not any more than Lord Robert's death with Your Grace.”

He almost laughed. “I am glad to hear it.” Rhaegar gave a sigh. “Vicious rumours are all around. One, it seems, claims that I have killed the king. I know that you were a good friend of his in your youths; before the madness took hold of him.” He drained his cup. “Would you like to see him, my lord?”

He'd been sending near all of the new arrivals up to the highest floor of Maegor's – the High Septon had been right in pointing out that many doubted the king's continued survival, and it was easy enough to prove. His High Holiness had come the morning after their visit to the Great Sept, assured himself that his father still lived, and then performed the blessing they'd wanted.

Rhaegar, however, still hadn't faced the king. This would change now, he resolved.

After Lord Tywin had returned from his visit, disdain clear on his face, it was time. Rhaegar had the Kingsguard with him and took a deep breath before entering his father's chambers.

Aerys greeted Rhaegar by throwing a chair towards him, quickly swatted away by Prince Lewyn's shield. “Ah, my _son_”, he sneered, standing on – _on?_ – a small table. “Come to finish what you have started?”

Rhaegar already felt exhausted. “And what would that be?”

“Kill your own king, you treacherous, kinslaying bastard. And they say _I_ am mad!”

He looked him over: all tattered clothing (though they provided him with ample garb), shaggy long beard, once-handsome features twisted. “I wonder why.”

Aerys grabbed a vase and threw it at him, though Rhaegar ducked out of the way. “Do it, then”, the king said. “You want my death and my crown. Have them both and see how your Dornish spawn will do the same to you when the time comes; or whatever you sire on that wolf bitch you call a wife.”

“Thank you for the caution.” Why was he here? Rhaegar thought he'd been seeking some sense of closure, but what had anyone ever gained from speaking to King Scab?

Aerys hopped off his table, almost falling in the process. “The Lord Regent of the Seven Kingdoms”, he said, beginning to pace. “_Rhaegar Targaryen._ Ha! Rhaegar Waters is what they should call you. A trueborn son of mine would have never committed such treachery.”

“Oh, Seven Above, I so wish you were right.” The thought held much appeal, political implications aside. Rhaegar liked to think that the second Daeron had felt the same, but then he'd had the comfort of imagining that he truly could be Aemon's son instead of Aegon the Unworthy's.

“You do?” Aerys walked towards him, which somewhat alarmed the Kingsguard. “You would rather be a bastard than the blood of kings and conquerors?”

“Mother is of your blood”, Rhaegar pointed out, and Aerys snarled. “That filthy _whore_. You may as well send her down to the brothels; a king's sister might make you some money even if she's old and used.”

He didn't even feel angry anymore. “She bears your child.”

At that, his father laughed in wild glee. “And this time I know it is mine, because I have spent most of the last moon inside that dried-up -”

“Enough.” To his astonishment, that actually made Aerys stop. “I have come to tell you that, and nothing more. I will not kill you.” He took a step towards him. “Though you had no such qualms.”

“A _traitor_”, Aerys said, “deserves death.”

“Your son – and we both know that I am yours, as much as either of us wishes it to be false – should never die at your command.” In fact, he was very angry, Rhaegar realised. He pointed at his neck. “You sent assassins to kill me; common guardsmen meant to slay the blood of the dragon”, to put it in terms the king would understand, “with a poison that felt like fire in my veins. But am I dead, Father?”

When the king didn't immediately respond, he took another step; dangerously close. “I live”, Rhaegar said, “and so do you. You will continue to do so until the Stranger comes and drags you to the deepest of the seven hells to burn for all eternity, and you will know anguish. And I will rule this realm like the best of our ancestors, and we will all – the people, Mother, your children and mine, my wives and I – we will all rejoice because we will be free from you.”

He didn't wait for a reply. Rhaegar didn't think he could stand another second in the king's presence, and felt at knot at the back of his throat.

Close to running down the stairs, the remedy for his mood was clear. He would go to the nursery and hold Rhaenys to remind himself that there was good in this world, and sing or perhaps read to her as his father had never done for him.

May all the gods forgive him: He couldn't _wait_ for Aerys to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 100% sure about all the travel times checking out here, but I figured it would be better to make everyone show up at the same time than draw it all out.
> 
> Also, I hope everyone's alright considering the various stages of lockdown much of the world seems to be under. Fun times!


	35. 23/09/281 – Lyanna

_King's Landing, the end of the 9th moon of the year 281 AC_

She knelt before the heart tree, praying and waiting for Ned, as the gods told her that someone else had come.

Smiling, Lyanna stood, looking into Rhaegar's astonished face. “When did _this_ happen?”, he asked.

“Is this the first time you have been here since – well.” Since they'd offered nine men to the gods to kill a tenth, which was a truth best left unspoken with Ned likely being close. “It began after that.”

She took a few steps back, watching the oak. New, thick roots had sprung up from the ground, the bark around the base was turning white, and a few leaves appeared red. From the middle of the trunk, a face was staring at them.

“I had not been back, though perhaps I should have. Do you believe it happened because of – it?”

“The gods do like blood”, she said quietly. “It gives them strength.”

He put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close. “That only means that what we did was right.”

“I know.” She leaned onto him, looking back at the bloody face upon the tree. “You truly should come here more often. The gods have quite an interest in you.”

“That is why I am here. I had just been to the sept with Elia, though she agreed that I should see you here as well, and pay homage to your gods.”

Lyanna untangled herself and smirked up at him. “Is that your way of saying that she told you to come here?”

“It was my idea”, Rhaegar insisted, taking her hands. “I do occasionally have my own thoughts about how to be a good husband to the both of you – though it also could have been the Father who told me. Things can get blurry when in prayer.”

“I highly doubt the Seven would have told you to pray to the old gods.” Lyanna still felt uncomfortable in a sept. The long, drawn-out wedding ceremony of Lord Stannis and Lady Cersei more than a moon ago had left her in dire need of fresh air, and once more grateful that she'd been wed where she belonged.

Rhaegar squeezed her hands. “The Seven have no quarrel with your gods.”

“That is not what the High Septon sounded like”, she pointed out, and he shrugged. “The High Septon knows nothing. I have found that the key to following the Seven is to ignore the clergy.”

Then why did they have them? Lyanna didn't get to ask as they next heard steps approaching, and Ned clearing his throat.

“Your Grace”, he said with a bow, looking mildly confused at her husband's presence. She let go of Rhaegar's hands as he dipped his head. “My lord.”

Her brother was there so they could pray, and because Lyanna liked to occasionally convene all northerners in the Red Keep in the godswood. The ladies would arrive shortly, which should give them all some respite from the excitement caused by tonight's feast.

“Are you as bewildered by the Seven as your lady sister, Lord Eddard?”, Rhaegar asked.

Ned looked slightly pained. “I prefer the quiet of a godswood.” Then he nodded towards the heart tree. “Though I have never seen anything quite like this.”

He was suspicious, Lyanna knew. As much as she didn't want to lie to him, she'd known that she couldn't tell him the truth, and had thus said that she'd sacrificed a horse to beg the gods' help during her pregnancy. “Perhaps it is because our gods have more followers living here than ever before”, she suggested.

Ned didn't seem convinced, and there was something heartbreaking about him thinking that she was hiding something – which she was. “Perhaps”, he said slowly, then turned to Rhaegar. “Lord Arryn was looking for you, Your Grace. He said something about news from Casterly Rock.”

Her husband sighed. “So much for praying, then. I shall find him. I will likely not see either of you until later – both your presences will be required in the sept, I am afraid.”

“We will endure”, Lyanna said as Ned bowed once more.

News from Casterly Rock? They could both imagine what it would be. Prince Oberyn had said that the poison he used on Lord Lannister would need about a moon to begin working.

It was a busy day. After the godswood, Lyanna didn't have much time to spare before she'd need to be in the Red Keep's sept to watch the newest appointment to the Kingsguard say his vows. It was a young knight from the Vale; Ser Adrian Waynwood, who had recently distinguished himself when fighting the mountain clans. The Hand's appointment, that much was clear, though there hadn't been anyone Rhaegar would have preferred.

Beyond that, it was also Prince Viserys' sixth name day, which would be celebrated with a small feast in the Queen's Ballroom. Elia had wanted to direct the preparations with Queen Rhaella, but was very far along by now – her son would be born within a fortnight or less, and both Rhaegar and the maesters insisted that she rest. She obliged them to a certain extent, meaning that she'd spent much time in her rooms with the queen, deciding on all kinds of details regarding the feast that Lyanna didn't care much about.

She had her own responsibilities, anyway. “I heard there are news from the Westerlands?”, she asked Prince Oberyn as she met him in his rooms, holding the lists she'd prepared.

“Oh, yes.” He seemed very smug. “Lord Tywin has tragically fallen ill, the poor man.”

“How long?” Lyanna deposited the parchments on the table, watching as the prince inspected a spear he'd mounted on the wall. His chambers appeared full of weapons, though she suspected that he had many more hidden in vials and jars.

He turned to her with one of his dangerous smiles. “A few weeks. His bowels will slowly begin to clamp shut as he rots from the inside, until he will die green and bloated. My friends in Oldtown tell me that a maester is unlikely to recognise a poison at work, considering the spells I have placed upon it.”

Lord Robert had been one thing – his death willed by the gods and only requiring the executions of those already condemned, she'd decided she could live with it. This method, however, still didn't sit right with Lyanna. “A rather cruel fate”, she said.

“Fit for a cruel man.” Prince Oberyn picked up her parchments and glanced over the first. “Consider what would have happened to Elia and Lady Ashara if Ser Arthur had not been there. And if that is not enough, Your Grace, do keep in mind that men such as the Mountain are not known for the self-control, and Lannister's orders regarding yourself may not have been followed.”

“The threat to your sister and Lady Ashara is enough to convince me, my lord”, Lyanna said, possibly too sharply. “I object to the method, not the result.”

The prince shrugged. “It is too late for that, I fear.” He shuffled through the parchments. “How certain are you of all of this?”

“Reasonably.” It was a list of all Houses in the North with every member and their estimated strength and wealth – to the extent that she and Ned knew. He'd included the Vale as well. “Out of all the kingdoms, the North will be the easiest to convince, especially if we go through my lord father. I should travel to Winterfell after my son is born.”

They didn't know when exactly the new Long Night would come, but going by Lyanna's visions, they had somewhere between sixteen and twenty years to prepare. While that seemed like plenty of time, there was no use in waiting.

“That would seem advisable”, he said, then opened a small wooden box on a side table that was close to overflowing with golden jewellery. “There is much to decide. At the very least, we seem to have a greater capability for it than they do at the Citadel.” Pycelle was officially dead by now, and a new Grand Maester had to be chosen. “Their intrigue is the worst of its kind – complex, but incredibly slow, and honestly quite boring.” He turned to her, having slipped a heavy golden bracelet on his arm and fastened a sun-and-spear brooch over his heart. “Too much?”

Lyanna blinked at him. “No?”

“Your Grace speaks wisely.” Prince Oberyn closed the box with a thud, not bothering to lock it, and strode towards Lyanna to offer her his arm. “We will be slightly late for Ser Adrian's vows, which is perfect. Lord Tyrell _hates_ it when I make a grand entrance.”

Later at the feast, which had begun early (the nameday boy was only turning six, after all), they ate and then watched a mummer's troupe perform a short play about Aemon the Dragonknight; Viserys' favourite.

Afterwards, the little prince was free to run around in the ballroom with his new companions; Edmure Tully and Renly Baratheon. Watching them reenact a scene from the play, Lyanna decided to speak to Lysa Tully. “Your brother seems a very happy boy, my lady.”

She was a comely, auburn-haired maid a year or two younger than her, and Lyanna wondered if her sister looked the same. “He is, Your Grace”, Lady Lysa said, clinging to a cup of wine with clear unhappiness on her face. “Such a good companion for my betrothed.”

It had to be quite strange. “This will only assure you of Prince Viserys' goodwill once you wed”, Lyanna said, trying to cheer her up. “And besides, think of how handsome he will be.”

“In ten years.” Lady Lysa shook her head and had a large swig of wine. “Forgive me. I had merely never thought I would wed so late.”

She put a hand on Lady Lysa's arm, half feeling sorry for her, and half thinking that she was slightly exaggerating her misery; most likely helped by the vast amount of wine she'd had. “You will be five-and-twenty when you wed, is that not right? The Princess Elia was nearly three-and-twenty – it is not that old.”

“I suppose it depends on when His Grace decides that Prince Viserys is ready to wed.” Lady Lysa was watching the boys as Viserys stood on a chair, warding off her little brother and Renly Baratheon with a wooden sword. “My sister will have countless children by that point.”

“How is the Lady Catelyn?”, Lyanna asked, not really wanting to spend more time on Lady Lysa's dark thoughts. “Have you written to her? I hope she enjoys Winterfell.”

The other woman drained her cup and grabbed a jug to refill it. “Cat is fine”, she said, slightly slurring. “She'll always be fine.”

By now, Lyanna profoundly regretted having initiated the conversation. “That is wonderful to hear”, she said, looking through the room in hopes of finding someone else to talk to – she could not imagine that Lady Lysa would speak quite the same way without the drink, and would likely regret it in the morning.

“Yes, Cat _is_ wonderful”, she continued. “Everyone always says so. The fairest maid in the Riverlands; people talk about her as if she was as comely as Cersei Lannister.”

“Oh, by the gods, Lady Cersei”, she said, and patted Lysa's arm apologetically. “Excuse me; you have just reminded me that I urgently need to speak to her. Lord Tywin has fallen ill, if you have not heard.”

With that, she hurried away, looking for the famed head of golden hair and hoping not to find it. Lyanna had barely spoken to Lady Cersei so far, though what she'd heard about her didn't make her eager to rectify this.

She could see her on the other side of the ballroom, looking as miserable as her husband beside her; just as both of them had on their wedding day. Luckily, the dancing had begun, and Lyanna was intercepted by Rhaegar coming out of nowhere and hooking his arm under hers. “Will you do me the honour, Your Grace?”

“Please.” This dance required them to frequently change partners, though Lyanna got a few words in beforehand, telling Rhaegar of her conversation with Lady Lysa. “Well”, he said, “most women seem to object to husbands much older than themselves. Surely, this is better than her marrying someone Lord Arryn's age.”

With that, it was time to switch, and Lyanna found herself dancing with Tytos Blackwood, the new master of laws. He was on friendly terms with her father and she'd met him at Winterfell as a child, so they reminisced before the steps brought her face to face with Monford Velaryon.

It was obvious that his family had oft intermarried with the Targaryens, she thought; he had both the Valyrian looks and the pride of an ancient House near royalty.

Then, there came Ned. “Dancing again, I see?”, Lyanna asked, pointedly nodding towards Lady Ashara, who was currently partnered with Rhaegar.

“I am growing to like it”, her brother said, and she thought that he, too, had likely had more than a few cups of wine. “After this, there will be a couple dance”, she said. This hadn't been planned, but Lyanna was now in the position to change that. “If you do not ask her yourself this time, you are the greatest fool to ever bear our name.”

While she hadn't ever experienced it herself, Lyanna thought that Ned's courting of Ashara was progressing very slowly. “I will”, he promised.

“And try to win her hand before Father gives in to Lord Ryswell's pleas”, she added, then partners switched, leaving her with Lord Connington and Ned with, appropriately, Lady Barbrey.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself”, Elia said when Lyanna went to sit down with her and the queen, balancing a cup of water on her enormous belly. “I would love to dance.”

It was plain that this would be difficult, however. Lyanna didn't show yet, and neither did Queen Rhaella, but the idea that she could ever be this large had something disturbing to it.

“You will dance again soon, my dear”, their good-mother said. “And by then, gods willing, there will be a new heir to our House.”

“I cannot wait.” Elia was shifting in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. “This one has been giving me so much trouble – oh, Lady Cersei! Come here if you will. I would rise, but that may take some time.”

Cersei Lannister was passing them with Ser Jaime. Before Elia had addressed her, she'd looked happier than Lyanna had ever seen her before, though now her smile turned forced as she curtsied. “Your Graces. What a wonderful feast.”

It really was – Lyanna had always assumed that the Red Keep was full of splendour and hadn't been wrong, especially in the Queen's Ballroom with its mirrors and carvings. “We are terribly sorry to hear about your lord father's illness”, Elia said.

Ser Jaime bowed his head in acknowledgement, but Cersei shrugged. “He will recover. I would hope that he has hanged whichever cook served him a rotten meal.”

So they assumed it was food poisoning, for now. “Of course he will”, Queen Rhaella proclaimed, completely unaware of their involvement. “Lord Tywin is too hardy to succumb to a stomach ache. Your late lady mother used to say that he could climb the Rock itself if he so chose.”

“He could”, Cersei said, nodding in fierce agreement. “Now, if Your Graces will excuse us – I have just convinced my dear brother to dance with me, as my husband will not.”

As they walked off, Lyanna could see the slightest smirk on Ser Jaime's face. “It must all be very difficult for her”, she concluded. “It is good she has her brother here.”

Elia looked as if she meant to say something, but ultimately didn't, with a glance at the queen. Lyanna knew that she didn't have much sympathy for Lady Cersei – which, after everything she'd told her, was understandable enough.

_Five weeks later – the second day of the eleventh moon 281 AC_

Prince Aegon was born after sixteen arduous hours of labour.

It was the most terrifying thing Lyanna had ever borne witness to, and she'd only got the occasional glimpse of it. While Elia was screaming and bleeding in the birthing bed and Rhaegar praying by her side, it fell upon Lyanna to be the link between the Lord Regent and his small council, regularly assure anyone who asked that things were progressing, and spend time with the queen as she watched over Rhaenys and Viserys.

The young prince was made anxious by the screams echoing through Maegor's Holdfast, alternating between asking for reassurance that all was well and occasionally seeming to retreat into himself. After a while, the queen told Ser Oswell to take him out to for spontaneous sword-fighting lesson, which was a relief for all of them.

Little Rhaenys, on the other hand, didn't seem aware of what was happening. “Oh, look at you”, Rhaella cooed. “Just let go, sweetling.”

She was standing, though holding onto a low table. After looking at them with her large dark eyes, she did let go, and stood on her own legs.

The queen applauded, as did Lyanna, which promoted Rhaenys to laugh in delight, and then immediately collapse into a pile of black hair and red fabric. “Very good!”, Rhaella insisted while Rhaenys struggled to get back on her feet.

This was when Prince Lewyn knocked, barged in without waiting for an answer, and just about remembered to bow. “It is done”, he announced. “A healthy boy, though Elia is weak.”

Shaking her head, Lyanna rose. They had already known the outcome, after all. “Do not worry, ser; she will recover. Only a third child would kill her.”

Feeling both his and the queen's eyes upon her, she picked up a squirming Rhaenys. “Is this based on some sort of magical vision?”, Prince Lewyn asked.

“Yes.” Lyanna strode out the door, eager to see Rhaegar's heir.

The prince followed, Rhaella right behind them. “If any of Your Graces had told me that a day ago, you would have spared me much worry.”

“Would you have believed us?”, she asked, hurrying up the stairs to their floor while noticing that Rhaenys was, in fact, quite heavy.

“I have been guarding Rhaegar for many years”, Prince Lewyn pointed out, then gently laid his hand on her shoulder once they'd reached the top of the staircase. “Let me take Rhaenys, princess. She must meet her brother, but it is not a scene fit for her.”

He was probably right, and so Lyanna obliged before hurrying past Ser Arthur and Ser Jaime at Elia's door. Inside, she found her lying on the bed – mostly naked, surrounded by blood, and nursing a tiny babe. There was a maester fussing around her.

Elia reacted to her arrival with the faintest wave, while Rhaegar was beaming. “Aegon”, he said, a hand in Elia's sweat-drenched hair while looking down on the infant. “_Look_ at him – Mother!” The queen had entered behind her. “You have a grandson.”

From what she could see, the babe had Elia's skin tone and a few wisps of silver-gold hair. She looked happy – terribly exhausted and clearly having lost a large amount of blood, but content. Elia found her eyes, and smiled ever so slightly.

Queen Rhaella was muttering something, and Lyanna turned to find tears in her eyes. She'd never thought anyone could be as regal _and_ frail as her good-mother, but her dignified crying only underlined it.

Outside, she could hear Prince Oberyn's voice as he argued with the Kingsguard to be let into the room. In here, all eyes were on Aegon Targaryen – Rhaegar's heir, the future king, and the prince who'd help her son end the Long Night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline note because I revised anything indicating time more than once when writing this chapter and am not completely confident it's clear: This starts seven weeks after the last chapter. Three weeks after it/a month before this, Stannis and Cersei got married in a splendid ceremony to begin a profoundly unhappy marriage. Tywin left immediately after.
> 
> 100% sure that that's not how weirwoods work in canon – they're just a species of tree – but I thought the concept was cool.
> 
> Ser Adrian Waynwood isn't a canon character. I had a really hard time working out who could be the new member of the Kingsguard, because I couldn't think of anyone around in that period who was a famously good fighter, followed the Seven, was pretty young, and could be taken out of the line of succession without their House taking issue. Also, I'd think that they'd try to get a bit of a regional balance, and there wasn't anyone from the Vale before his appointment – something Jon Arryn would want to rectify. (I did consider putting a Manderly on there, them being northern but also following the Seven, but... they're not really the type.)  
Anyway, I've decided that Ser Adrian is just from an unspecified minor Waynwood branch.
> 
> Lord Blackwood as master of laws is also a pretty random choice, tbh, based on which region might be feeling underrepresented otherwise – which isn't really something that seems to play into small council configurations most of the time, but I think it is a good course of action to have people from all over the Seven Kingdoms represented in your, for lack of a better word, administration. Makes everyone feel like they have a stake in it (minus the Brackens, I guess). Tytos is also a way to nod to both the Riverlands and North.


	36. 21/12/281 – Elia

_King's Landing, the last day of the year 281 AC_

They looked down at Aegon in his crib, happily curled around the black dragon egg. “I truly do not understand”, Rhaegar said. “I found three eggs, and knew I would have three children. My ancestors hatched them by laying them into a babe's crib – so why did Rhaenys' egg never hatch?”

“She is far from the first”, Archmaester Marwyn pointed out. “Your House continued laying the eggs in cribs after the last dragon died.”

They'd tried to have Marwyn elected Grand Maester, but this had ultimately failed – which hadn't kept Rhaegar from taking him into his personal service, of course. “But we know they will return”, Elia said, running a finger along the egg. “Rhaegar finding the eggs at all was clearly a moment of prophecy and magic, and would not have occurred without purpose.”

Aegon wrapped his little hand around her finger. “It wouldn't have”, Marwyn agreed. “It would stand to reason, then, that they will hatch in similar circumstances. Beyond that, there are things you could attempt, but they carry great danger. Only death can pay for life, as they say in the east.”

“There was more than enough death at Summerhall”, Rhaegar said, shaking his head. He turned away from the crib to pick up Rhaenys, who was playing with a wooden dragon, pretending it was soaring through the skies. “And yet, no eggs hatched.”

“No, but you were born.” Elia turned to them and found Marwyn's gaze fixed on Rhaenys. The toy was painted black and red, and she made it land on Rhaegar's shoulder. “Baleri”, she announced.

“Baleri_on_”, Rhaegar corrected, and Marwyn narrowed his eyes. “What was her first word?”

Rhaenys answered for them. “Dragon!”, she said happily, throwing the toy in the vague direction of Aegon's crib.

“Do not throw things at your brother”, Elia told her and picked it up from the ground, then saw that her daughter's lip was quivering. “Baleri!”, she demanded, pointing at the dragon, and tucked at Rhaegar's doublet. “Down!”

He did let her down, but looked at her with seriousness. “If you want to keep your toy, then you should not just throw it away.”

“No!” Rhaenys stamped her little feet, and Elia knew exactly what would come next. “Dragon”, she said sadly, and began to cry.

As always, Rhaegar's face softened. “Give her the toy”, he sighed.

Elia put it on a high shelf. “She can have it when she stops crying.”

Their daughter turned to her, made a few steps, and fell backwards.

“Her first word was ‘dragon’”, Marwyn repeated. “Does she have dreams?”

“We believe she might.” They looked at the little princess crossing her arms and – quite theatrically – crying on the floor. Of course, Aegon joined in next.

“Lord Kevan still has not agreed to your proposal, Your Grace”, Jon Arryn announced at the small council meeting. “Although he has stated that he will – under the condition that you name him Warden of the West.”

Rhaegar sighed. “That would defeat the purpose, would it not? Of course, Ser Kevan knows that much.” After Tywin Lannister's death from an unexplained and terrible illness that had baffled the maesters, it had emerged that he had named his brother the heir to Casterly Rock in his son's stead. “I want Lord Tyrion here”, Rhaegar said. “He is the rightful heir to the Rock, after all, deformities aside.”

Thinking back on the misshapen babe she'd seen all these years ago, Elia did wonder what he would look like now – not that many people knew. “Is there any indication that young Lord Tyrion's... affliction would affect his mind as well as his body?”, Mace Tyrell asked.

“Hardly.” Grand Maester Agrivane, a large man with thinning white hair, was swirling hippocras around in his cup. “The boy is a dwarf, nothing more. Dwarves' minds are no different from anyone else's.”

“There have been rumours”, Tytos Blackwood said, “that he was never Lord Tywin's son at all.”

Unsurprisingly, Rhaegar's face darkened. “By which you mean, my lord, the rumours claiming that my royal father raped the Lady Joanna? I would not put it past the king, but I highly doubt that Tywin would have let such a child live.”

“If I were Kevan, I would stoke those rumours”, Oberyn said. “True or not – if you ever pushed for Tyrion's rights, many would whisper that you were trying to give Casterly Rock to your bastard half-brother.”

Elia shook her head. “Did Kevan strike you as such a man? The Lannisters have too much pride to allow anyone to think that Lord Tywin would have claimed his wife's bastard as his own.”

“Perhaps pride could have been Tywin's reason to do so”, Lord Blackwood said. “Not that it matters. The boy is officially his son.”

Monford Velaryon was playing with a heavy ring on his finger. “Tywin Lannister never let anyone doubt that Tyrion is his son, and that even though he is a dwarf and he has always despised the boy's existence. The only possible reason for this is that the rumours are untrue; else he would have killed the child as soon as it was born and told the world the boy had never lived.” Looking up from the ring, he added: “My own lord father lived at court for the entirety of the king's reign and Tywin's tenure as Hand, and he never believed a word of these allegations. That the king lusted after Lady Joanna is clear, but this never amounted to anything more than lewd comments and his behaviour at her bedding.”

“This means”, Stannis Baratheon said, “that Casterly Rock is Lord Tyrion's by rights. His uncle can serve as castellan until he comes of age, but unless Tyrion's mind is afflicted along with his body, he should rule once he becomes a man. Do not name Ser Kevan Warden of the West, Your Grace, but give the title to some other Lannister; the gods know there are enough of them. Once Tyrion reaches majority, it should pass to him.”

Jon Arryn was nodding. “That much is clear. It does not change the fact that Lord Tywin's right to proclaim his brother his heir cannot be challenged by any of us – the Wardenship is for His Grace to give, but Casterly Rock is not.”

“Which is precisely why we need Tyrion with us”, Rhaegar said. “A nine-year-old boy cannot challenge his uncle's rule on his own, but a grown man raised at court will have far better prospects.”

“But why bother, Your Grace?”, Lord Tyrell asked. “Tyrion is a child and a dwarf; Lord Kevan a man of sound judgement and character. Surely, we may as well let him keep the Rock.”

“It is not his to have”, Lord Baratheon said. “A trueborn son comes before his uncle.”

Lord Blackwood inclined his head. “Forgive me, my lord, but I am curious. Is this your view, or your lady wife's?”

Thinking back to her visit to Casterly Rock, Elia could hardly believe it was the latter. “My wife does not appear overly fond of her dwarf brother”, Stannis said. “She is also of the belief that her father was murdered, even though the entire Citadel agrees that there is no poison that could have caused such an illness.”

“And what is her view on the succession?”, Elia asked. It had been clear to all at court that Tywin's death had shaken Cersei Lannister to the core, and it was well-known that her companions lived in fear of her moods.

“She thinks the Rock should be hers.” Lord Stannis looked vaguely annoyed. “As she tells me frequently, and at some length. I would agree, if it were not for the fact that she has a brother who is not in the Kingsguard.”

His mindset was a blessing to them – if Elia were in his position, she would do her best to ensure that Cersei would rule, and their children could inherit both Storm's End and Casterly Rock.

Tyrion's legitimacy as the heir wasn't the entire reason they wanted him to have it, either. If they could make sure the boy and recent orphan spent much of his youth in the Red Keep, raised by them, this would presumably make him a Warden who was very sympathetic to the Crown.

“This still leaves the issue of how we get a hold of little Tyrion”, Lord Velaryon pointed out. “If you wish, Your Grace, I can sail for the Rock on the morrow – with a beautiful cabin prepared for the boy on the _Pride of Driftmark_, and a few dromonds to accompany us and send Ser Kevan a message.”

Oberyn snorted. “The Rock is an awfully formidable castle, and high above the sea. I do not think your ships would do much to intimidate anyone inside.”

“There is no need for fighting.” Lord Arryn seemed to have had an epiphany. “Nor for threatening to. The Wardenship _is_ yours to give, Your Grace – and there is no reason safe tradition for it being held by a Lannister. Let Ser Kevan know that he can either act as castellan and Warden until Lord Tyrion comes of age, or keep the Rock while the title goes to another House entirely. Marbrand, Serrett, Crakehall; it makes no matter. Or perhaps the Westerlings or Spicers, for their support at the Great Council.”

Elia liked that idea. “A few moons ago, I would have thought such a suggestion folly”, she said. “We all know the Houses of the Westerlands lived in terror of Lord Tywin. But Ser Kevan is not his brother, and all his bannermen know this.” To give the Wardenship to another House would change the balance of power in the region, and would likely begin a slow decline in Lannister dominance.

She could see Rhaegar weighing the suggestion in his mind. “Good”, he finally said. “I will send Ser Gerold himself to deliver the message, accompanied by a wheelhouse for Lord Tyrion.”

After this meeting, they went straight to another. Rhaegar and Elia walked from the small council chamber to Maegor's, while Oberyn made off to find the maid he got to spy on Lady Cersei. In the Holdfast, a room was now used for their more private council, and had effectively become Marwyn's study.

Inside, the archmaester sat with Lyanna and Lord Eddard, all three of them poring over books from both the Citadel and Winterfell. They were hoping to soon be able to reveal the truth about the coming threat to the small council, and were attempting to gather any information they could.

“Anything new?”, Rhaegar asked, and Lyanna proudly pointed to a new stack of books and scrolls. “From Castle Black”, she said. “Maester Aemon sends his regards, and apologises for his lack of correspondence. He is losing his eyesight.”

Elia picked up a fragile, ancient scroll, and found it to be written in High Valyrian. This would excite Rhaegar. “Then who wrote the letter?”

“Our brother Benjen.” Lord Eddard had a large tome open before him, containing what looked like transcripts of runic text. “He has begun his training, though not yet said his vows.”

Rhaegar carefully opened another scroll, then smiled with obvious delight. “By the gods, this is old. We will need to transcribe them all before they fall apart.”

“You do not have the time to be sitting here copying ancient text”, Elia said. Knowing that he would do so anyway, she added: “So I will help you, though not today.” They had organised a celebration to welcome the new year.

“Ned and I have been working on the runes”, Lyanna explained. “Some maesters of the Watch have, over the centuries, copied text found on stones and other places beyond the Wall – though it does not always make much sense. I believe many of them simply did not know what they were copying.”

“Much of it is inane, as well”, Lord Eddard added, pointing at a short passage in his book. “This says ‘Marna was here’.”

“I would be helping them”, Marwyn said, flashing his red-stained teeth, “if the princess and her lordly brother would teach me the runes, which they refuse to do. Either way, no matter whether the source is written in the Old Tongue, the Common Tongue, or High Valyrian, there is something that has been recurring throughout.” He pointed towards the centre of the table, where a long rod of black dragonglass stood upward, curiously carved. “Much like we do not know how your dragon eggs may hatch, I have no idea how to light a glass candle. But it is made of dragonglass, and Your Graces don't need to be told that it has magical properties.”

All nodded to that. “We know that the children of the forest used dragonglass for their weapons. It is also repeatedly mentioned by the First Men, used extensively by the Valyrians of old, of course called ‘frozen fire’ in High Valyrian, and several mages in Asshai believe it to have been used in the production of their legendary Lightbringer.” He pointed at an open book that appeared to contain a long list of items. “Thousands of years ago, the Night's Watch received regular gifts of dragonglass from the children of the forest.”

“So it appears to be useful in some way”, Rhaegar concluded. “How lucky, then, that I have a castle built atop a mountain of it.”

“Dragonstone matters”, Marwyn agreed. “You should go, and soon. It is where you found the eggs, where your daughter was born – who now speaks of dragons more than of anything else – and you said that the mountain itself was full of fire.”

But when could they go? There was so much to do in the capital, though Elia supposed that she could remain in the Red Keep if Rhaegar was to leave. “We will make time”, he decided. “In the coming year, we will find out all we can, inform the small council and then all lords of this realm, begin preparations to strengthen the Watch – and, well, I assume that there is much we must do that we do not yet know of. But more urgently – will you join the celebrations, archmaester?”

“Oh, yes.” Marwyn flashed them a red smile. “With the smallfolk by the docks. You find more interesting company there than anywhere in this castle.”

Before they would have to change for the celebrations, Lyanna, Rhaegar, and Elia had a rare quiet moment to themselves. “Well, what a year it has been”, she said, savouring the best wine Dorne had to offer. “Twelve moons ago, we were on Dragonstone. Rhaenys had been born less than two moons before, we were preparing for Harrenhal, and neither of us had any idea that you would come into our lives.” She nodded to Lyanna, who was lying with her swollen feet up out on a couch opposite where Elia was sitting with Rhaegar.

“What did you do a year ago?”, he asked, an arm around Elia. The little intimacies of married life had been strange, initially – she recalled one instance of entering Rhaegar's chambers and seeing him and Lyanna jump away from each other; something that had happened the other way around as well. After a while, it, like most things, had become normal to them.

Lyanna was trying to push more pillows under her feet without changing position. “What I had been doing consistently since...”, one of the pillows fell down, and Rhaegar finally stood up to help her, “I had the first vision. I was at Winterfell, begging the gods for help, arguing with Bran and secretly sparring with Ben. Cursing my parents, too. Thank you.” He lifted up her feet by her ankles, arranged the pillows, and propped them back down. “I never would have guessed that it would happen like this.”

“No-one did.” Elia leaned against their husband after he rejoined her on their couch. “Gods, I was furious when we first found out Rhaegar would need to wed you.”

“She _slapped_ me”, he complained, somehow still outraged, though Lyanna just nodded. “That seems fair.”

“_Two wives”_, he said in the tone everyone else used to express their disapproval. “I should have pitted you against each other from the beginning. Then you would not join forces against me like this.”

“We would have seen through it.” Lyanna was inspecting the embroidery on the cuff of her gown. “Although I suppose that it was what everyone expected. My own family included, regrettably enough.”

Elia took Rhaegar's hand and sighed. “As it turns out, most of Dorne expects much the same from you. Doran's assurances help, and Lady Ashara has been singing your praises to her own House, but I still receive the occasional letter from someone proclaiming their support for my rights – as if they were under threat in any way.”

“After our son is born, we will travel to the North, and then to Dorne”, Rhaegar said. “We have been speaking of visiting Sunspear for years, anyway. It is important that they all see the two of you together.”

“Doran will ensure you will not find a scorpion in your bed”, Elia added, prompting a disturbed glance from Lyanna. Then she just shook her head, and asked: “Speaking of our son – what will you name him?”

At that, Rhaegar hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against Elia's hand. “If we did not already have a Viserys, I would have chosen that name”, he explained. “This leads me to think that he should be named after one of the greats. You both know I am fond of Daeron the Second.”

“Though not the first, I should hope”, Elia said, and he had the audacity to shrug. “The Young Dragon is still much admired.”

She sat up straight. “Not where I am from.”

“Rightly so”, he acknowledged, and pulled her back to him. “The second made up for his mistakes.”

“Well, either way. Both are strongly associated with Dorne, in one way or another, and it would seem strange if you named your son by Lyanna after them.”

Lyanna began to slowly sit up, groaning. “I suppose a northern name is not an option?”, she asked, and laughed when she saw their husband's face. “Fine. A Targaryen version of it? You are the only Rhaegar, after all.”

“Exempting Rhaegar Frey”, he mumbled, and Lyanna brought forth a few ideas: “Brandon – Braendon, that sounds almost right, does it not? Or Eddard, but spelled with an A and an E. Same for Edric, really. Baenjen. We once had an Edderion, and that could be a Valyrian name, no?”

“No”, Rhaegar replied, prompting Lyanna to grin. “Craegan? Aelaric? Rick – ah, I cannot find a way to bastardise Rickon or Rickard. Rickaerd? Or just name him Torrhen; that should be your favourite Stark.”

“Brandon the Builder is my favourite Stark”, he said, looking disturbed.

Lyanna pouted. “I am not?”

“Not anymore. You cannot simply change the vowels and make a name Valyrian.”

Elia wasn't sure if that was true, considering that the Targaryens had, throughout history, often relied on rearranging syllables to find new names. “Perhaps you can convince your son to give his own children those names one day”, she said. “For now, we should likely return to the great ancestors of House Targaryen.”

“Yes”, Rhaegar said, relieved. “Jaehaerys, perhaps. The first was great, and the second – could have been, had things gone differently.”

Surprisingly, Lyanna seemed more content with that. “The second was Betha Blackwood's soon. The blood of the First Men and a follower of the old gods, like me.” She tilted her head. “Though it is a mouthful. Is there no shorter version?”

“It has three syllables”, Rhaegar said. “Jaehaerys it is.” The decision made, he gently pushed Elia away. “Now, I believe it is time we prepare for the festivities. We must dazzle them with royal splendour.”

They did their best to comply. It was getting colder again, with the maesters now agreeing that winter was about to return, making it impossible to choose silk for a celebration that would in part take place outside. Instead, both Elia and Lyanna dressed in black and red brocade, though they'd chosen different patterns – and cuts, as Lyanna was well into the fifth moon of her pregnancy. Elia wore jewellery of yellow gold, including a tiara featuring a sunburst that Rhaegar had given her long ago.

She was helping Lyanna fit her own tiara into her hair; one Elia had had made for her nameday a moon ago – made of white gold, it included ruby weirwood leaves. This was the moment Ashara arrived with Lady Dacey; one in a gown accentuating the purple of her eyes, the other in the green of her House.

“Oh, by the gods.” Ashara briefly sat down on a couch, broke out into a wide smile, tried to control her features, and rose to pace the room.

Elia raised an eyebrow, tucking the last strand of Lyanna's hair into place. “Something has happened, I take it?”

Behind her, Lady Dacey wearily shook her head and poured herself some wine.

“_Gods”_, Ashara said again. “My – well, I have just received a raven from Starfall. My lady mother will propose a marriage between me and Ne- Lord Eddard to Lord Stark.”

“Wait.” Lyanna rose rapidly from her chair. “Ned has _finally_ asked you? When did this happen?”

Elia was just as surprised. “A fortnight ago”, Ashara said, taken aback by their bewilderment. “Did he not tell Your Grace?”

“Apparently not.” Lyanna sounded displeased.

“Yes, yes”, Lady Dacey said, then drained her cup. “While Your Graces have been busy having children and governing the realm, I have heard far too much about how Ned Stark keeps his cards too close to his chest. I hope this wedding will be the end of it.”

Ashara shot her a hurt look. “Well, forgive me if my troubles have bothered you, my lady. Besides”, she added, hurrying before a mirror to fuss with the lace on the neckline of her gown, “there is no certainty that Lord Stark will accept the match.”

Elia could see that. For the Daynes, it was undoubtedly advantageous – even though Eddard was unlikely to inherit Winterfell with Lord Brandon wed and in good health, he was at court, and the brother to a future queen. This would place Ashara in a close position to the both of them, giving her House much more influence in the Red Keep.

For the Starks, things would be more complicated. Dorne was far away; an alliance with the Daynes perhaps less needed than one at home, especially as both Brandon and Lyanna had already wed southerners, and Benjen would soon say his vows. On the other hand, House Dayne was ancient and proud, and it struck her as if Lord Rickard had long planned to extend the Starks' influence to the south (not that they would truly need that, with Lyanna).

“I dearly hope my lord father will accept”, Lyanna said. “Although half the ladies the northern lords sent south are here to win Ned's hand.”

Ashara straightened herself. “Well, they did not. Even though Barbrey Ryswell keeps asking him to go out riding with her, much to his distress.”

“I can just imagine what kind of riding she means”, Lady Dacey threw in, seeming like she was intent on getting very drunk tonight.

They had to leave, anyway. “This is wonderful news”, Elia concluded. “Even if Lord Stark is reluctant, you should not despair, as a large enough dowry can always change minds. Now, are we all ready for the celebrations? I am sure Rhaegar has been waiting for a while.”

Their plans for the night were grand. The castle gates had been opened to the smallfolk and a play would be shown in the largest courtyard – written under her strict supervision, it portrayed a (selective) journey through Targaryen history. Many of the singers she'd recruited at Harrenhal were there, fools and fire dancers would be making the rounds, food would be provided for the commons. After the play, the highborn were to feast in the throne room; an occasion that would include the unveiling of designs for several grand murals that would grace the Red Keep's walls within the year.

Stepping into the courtyard at Rhaegar's side under a well-lit arch, Elia smiled and waved, and saw the other two do the same. She held Rhaenys, he held Aegon, the people cheered. And why wouldn't they? Here they were, surrounded by great beauty and about to be taught a lesson about the greatness of their ruling House that was only half a lie. Rid of the king who'd made the city smell of death and ash, he'd been replaced by his dashing young successor – the one they'd loved for years already, and who gave them feasts and food and was likely to sing a song for them as well.

The times of fear and wildfire were over; the new year marked a new era for the city and the realm. As the Prince of Dragonstone with his two wives rang in the 282nd year of Targaryen rule, there began a period of peace, prosperity, and, yes, preparations for the coming war for the dawn.

At least, Elia was hoping that it would turn out somewhere along those lines. She was sure, however, that she would make the maesters write it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The discussion of Lannister succession ended up being longer than I'd planned, but I think it's an interesting subject. I really believe that a Tywin who knew he was dying would've preferred Kevan to take over instead of Cersei (not even considering Tyrion), especially as she's only 16 now – a woman, inexperienced, and just too old to give her a castellan/regent. The physical pain of the way he died aside, he also would've been deeply unhappy about knowing that he never got the heir he wanted.
> 
> So... Jaehaerys. Ugh. Basically, I kept trying to find a reason to just call him Jon – perhaps JonCon somehow tragically sacrificing himself, but that would be very Bury Your Gays, and I don't think Rhaegar would just call his son... Jon. The man is obsessed with Targaryen history, after all. Couldn't name him after Jonothor Darry or Jon Arryn, either. In the sequel (which I'm currently writing), he really doesn't use Jon a lot, though there are a few people who call him that.


	37. 11/04/282 – Rhaegar

_Dragonstone, the fourth moon of the year 282 AC_

Rhaegar sat between the roses in Aegon's Garden, perusing _Yin Tar, Neferion, Hyrkoon: Azor Ahai Beyond the Shadow_; a High Valyrian translation of an Asshai'i tome collecting different tales of the legendary hero. They'd come to Dragonstone a week ago, motivated by Marwyn's urging and a dream Rhaegar had had – he hardly remembered what had happened, but it had left him with the total conviction that his third child would need to be born here. What was more, it was always good to stock up on dragonglass, and they'd already made Lyanna a knife from it.

He looked up when he heard slow steps moving through the grass, and saw his mother smile. “Not everything has changed”, she said.

“No”, he agreed. “Some things never will.” Closing the book, he rose, looking for a tree trunk or something similar the queen could sit on.

“Well, this has.” She pointed at him. “When you were younger, you would have never just put your book away to speak to me.” Rhaella let Rhaegar lead her to a smooth, flat rock of the right height. “I can still see it so well – you were a scrawny little thing before you decided you should learn to fight after all, and would rather miss supper than stop reading for an hour. Already then, you were the only one who would defy your father.”

Aerys had been a lot less likely to burn people back then, Rhaegar thought, helping her sit. They'd taken the king with them on their move to Dragonstone, as he planned to leave him here, even if it meant doing without one Kingsguard upon their return to the capital. Now, he was up in the highest chambers of the Windwyrm, shouting at the shades only he could see.

“I always hoped I would live to see you rule”, the queen continued. “And wed, and have children of your own. Although I never believed it would happen so soon. You are about to have your third!”

Rhaegar laughed, sitting down on the ground. “So are you, Mother.”

Her gaze turned sad. “That is what I pray for, though the gods know I have lost many before.”

“Not this time”, he promised. “I -” He was never sure how much to tell his mother, as he did not wish to burden her with talk of the Long Night and the horrors to come, but would it not be cruel to let her believe that she'd loose another child? “There is a reason I have wed Lyanna”, he said. “In part, it is because I know I must have three children, and Elia cannot have a third. I also know I will have three siblings.” He nodded at her belly. “You are about to have the daughter you always wanted.”

For a moment, she looked at him in silence. Thunder sounded somewhere far away. “You have always had your secrets, too”, Rhaella finally said. “I thank you for telling me this one. Is this why Elia's chambers in Maegor's occasionally smell the way they do? It is a scent that took me back to the days her lady mother was at court, and at first I thought it was a Dornish incense. But of course, it is moon tea.”

“It is”, he admitted. “A third child would kill her.” After she'd fully recovered from Aegon's birth, he'd initially been afraid to lie with her in a way that could result in children, until she'd demanded it in no uncertain terms. Since then, they'd made sure that she drank her moon tea daily – though not right now, most likely, as she despised the taste and there was no need. Elia had remained in the Red Keep with Rhaenys, Aegon, and Viserys.

“How do you know all this?”, the queen asked, and it was the first time in many years that she sounded like she had when he'd been a boy: like a mother questioning her son's decisions. Rhaegar wasn't sure if he was glad or annoyed to hear this tone once more.

And just like back then, he felt no desire to explain himself at length. “From the gods.”

“Which gods?” Seeing her expression, he had to grin. She was being _stern_. “The old”, he said. “And the new, I believe; or the Valyrian ones – it can be unclear. Have I ever given you reason to doubt me, Mother?”

“I never have doubted you, not truly.” She was looking down at her hands; thin long fingers adorned with heavy rings. “I have been thinking much. I know that I have been quiet for long, because it was never my place to question the king – it has always been my duty to obey him, which I did, no matter what he has done.” Rhaella looked him in the eyes, hers a lighter shade than his own. “Our greatest duty is to our House. It always has been and always will be, else we risk throwing away what our ancestors have built. And yet, I obeyed your father even as he came close to doing just that; destroying our legacy.”

Rhaegar shook his head. “There was nothing that you could have done.”

“I know. However – if there is one piece of advice I can give you, my son, it is this: our dynasty is all. We _are_ the realm, and our obligations weigh more heavily than our desires. You have been lucky to find them in alignment so far, but never forget that we are nothing but parts of a greater whole. Your father believes that the rest of our House must serve his whims and his interests, when he should have been the one to serve all along.” The queen looked out over the gardens. “We must ensure that we all understand this. Your children, Viserys and the daughter I will have, your wives- “ She frowned. “Where _is_ Lyanna? I had expected to find her here with you.”

She'd been bathing. Every since they'd arrived on Dragonstone and Lyanna had discovered the large sunken tub heated by the Dragonmont itself, she had taken to using it every day. It reminded her of Winterfell with its hot springs, she'd said, and of a vision she'd had many years ago. So Rhaegar would light jasmine incense in the room and leave her to soak for an hour or more.

When he returned from the garden, it had begun to rain. Lyanna was sitting by the fire in his bedchamber, wearing a simple woolen gown and embroidering a long linen cloth that would be used to swaddle their son.

“There was a raven from Elia”, she said, setting tiny stitches at the hem. “Nothing truly new, except that Viserys has fought with Lord Tyrion again.”

Rhaegar sighed, falling into an armchair next to her. Kevan Lannister had ultimately given in to his demands, though he could imagine that the issue would be raised once more as soon as his nephew came of age. Tyrion, meanwhile, seemed to mostly enjoy court, and Rhaegar had found that beneath the lack of height and beauty was bright young boy – with a great love of dragons and a suspicious streak of pale hair that made him reconsider the truth of his birth.

Viserys, however, hadn't appreciated the newcomer. It had been a pleasant surprise that he got along well with Renly Baratheon and Edmure Tully after his many friendless years, but it appeared that Tyrion's physical weakness presented too easy a target for him not to exploit. It didn't help that the young Lord Lannister, in turn, would mock Viserys in ways he couldn't fully understand.

“Let us hope they will outgrow this”, he said, not for the first time. “How was your bath?”

She looked up from her needlework and smiled, illuminated by both the fire and a flash of lighting coming through the window. “Relaxing. Our son seems to agree, as he kicks a lot less whenever I am in the water.”

Outside, he heard the wind howl. “He will not be kicking you for much longer.”

“I know. In fact...” She pointed at a table, where her runes lay scattered. “I believe the time could be tonight. I have been feeling it all day, just as Elia said it would be, and the runes say the same.”

Rhaegar took a deep breath, exhaling shakily. “Tonight”, he repeated. “After everything -”

He was interrupted by a loud crash of thunder, startling them both. “Yes”, she said then. “It has been four and a half years since I had my first vision. And now it will come to pass, which means that...” Another flash of lightning. “That things are only about to begin.”

“We will be prepared”, he said. “We will reveal it all to the small council, and then the rest of the realm. We will travel to Winterfell and speak to the lords of the North -”

“Oh, I should say”, she interrupted. “Ned and Lady Ashara will come with us, and wed there. It was one of my lord father's conditions for agreeing to the match.” Thunder, even louder.

Lyanna suddenly cursed, stumbling out of her seat. “Gods”, she panted, and Rhaegar rose, only to have her hold onto his shoulders. “That one hurt.”

He stroked her arms and leaned his forehead against hers, looking into her frightened eyes. “All will be well”, he said. “I will be there, and I have done this before.”

She nodded, winced as she was gripped by another wave of pain, her hands digging into his doublet. “Oh”, Lyanna then said. “I believe...”

The door flew open and a panicked Ser Adrian appeared. “The queen”, he said, his eyes growing even larger as he saw Lyanna, who yelped. “The queen's water just broke.”

Rhaegar looked down. The floor was wet. _Both at once_. “Gods help us”, he murmured. “Get the maesters, _now_.”

Lighting flashed again, immediately followed by thunder. The storm was right above them.

As he'd said to Lyanna: he'd done this before.

However, things were somewhat complicated by needing to be in two rooms at once. As with both of Elia's births, it all began slowly, making it easy enough for him to light the right scents and candles, say the prayers, and make clear to the maesters that his interference was non-negotiable.

As the hours passed, the storm only intensified. The thunder sounded as if parts of the castle were collapsing, lighting struck the highest towers, rain was lashing against the windows. The wind howled, competing with the screams of both women.

“No, Your Grace, you must breathe slowly, _slowly_”, the maester told the queen, whose breaths were coming quick and shallow. Holding a silver-bound diamond in one hand and scattering jasmine and moonblooms into the hearth with another, Rhaegar prayed – _Mother Above font of mercy soothe her pain and give her strength- _A wail of pure agony came from the other room.

He ran, finding Lyanna with blood already pooling around her, rage on her face as she grabbed his hand like she wanted to break it. “The gods be damned”, she cursed, then screamed again and kicked at the maester. “I've done all they've wanted and they give me this pain.”

_Gentle her wrath and gift her with life_. He stroked Lyanna's hair, trying to sound calming. “The pain will cease, my love, and you will have the son -”

“How long?!”, she shouted at the maester, who looked absolutely terrified. He bowed, stammering: “Long, princess, forgive me. You still have not -”

“You hear that?” Lyanna looked as if she was about to punch him, her knuckles white, her bare arm covered in scars, just like his. “_Long._ I am being ripped apart for this thrice-damned son of yours -”

“Let us not damn anyone, please”, he said. Curses uttered with such emotion were nothing he wanted on his child. _Father judge her words with wisdom._ Lyanna tried to bite his hand in rage, then threw back her head and screamed as she was gripped by another wave of pain.

Shouts from the other room, a very pale maid running out. “Forgive me”, he said to Lyanna, freed his hand and hurried back.

So it went on. The storm raged, Rhaegar prayed, both were losing too much blood. He knew the gods could help them; they'd done it with Elia. _Mother Above bestow Your blessing ease her labour soothe her pain..._ Rhaella was suffering quietly, suppressing sobs as worried maesters swarmed around her... _Oh Mother of All I know she does not pray to You but she is Your child and needs Your help..._ Lyanna was feral, grunting and growling and ripping at the bloody sheets... _Smith mend her wounds Father let her live for she deserves it most of all and You must know..._ The queen grew paler by the minute, though she'd fallen into a rhythm of breathing and pushing that seemed to please the maesters... _Warrior she is one of Yours in truth and this her battle give her strength_... But Lyanna was calmer now, her wrath replaced by tears and by any and all gods, there was so much blood.

“My son”, Rhaella whispered, still doing what she was told even as it seemed to kill her, “remember what I said to you.”

He took her hand, cold and weak, while she pushed. “I will”, Rhaegar said, “though you can remind me on the morrow.”

“Duty to our House”, she replied. “We are the realm. It means -”, rhythmic breaths, “we serve something greater than ourselves.”

He didn't know how, but Rhaegar found himself at Lyanna's side the next moment. It wasn't enough, he realised when he saw her, still baring her teeth though she had no more strength to scream. _Old gods new gods someone do _something. “Pray, my love”, he said, not knowing what else could be done.

“I am praying”, she growled, opening a clenched fist and making runes fall onto the bed, and her tears were flowing.

It wasn't enough, he thought again, stroking his mother's silver hair as her eyes grew ever more vacant. Two maesters were standing in the hallway speaking in hushed voices, he screamed at them to get back to work and saw their resignation; it wasn't enough. His son was coming, someone told him, their head between Lyanna's legs, but she looked so _scared_ and was weeping because it wasn't enough. Half of his sister was out in the world and his mother the colour of alabaster.

Lightning struck something above them and thunder growled, as if the gods themselves were telling him that _it's wasn't enough._

“Rhaegar”, Lyanna breathed, grabbing at his hand, “Rhaegar, I'm dying.”

“No”, he said, as if that would do anything, “and look, look at that...” She barely seemed to notice as the maester raised a babe into the air, but stared at him with fierce grey eyes. “You must promise me that you will -”

He laid his finger on her lips. “I will promise you nothing. You are not dying.”

Saying that wasn't enough, telling his mother the same didn't make a difference, though she smiled in pure bliss as they both saw her daughter. Rhaella beckoned him close, eyes glazed over.

“Daenerys”, she said. “Raise her for me.”

“You must do that yourself”, he plead, “she is your daughter; she will need you.” _Mother Above I beg You please please please -_

The Seven weren't enough; not now. His attention wasn't enough. It could never be enough for both.

“A strong little boy, Your Grace”, someone said, placing the babe on Lyanna's chest, and she only had eyes for Rhaegar. “Promise me”, she said again.

“The girl is healthy, my prince”, he heard as his little sister's screams filled the room, her mother barely strong enough to lift her hand.

It wasn't enough because _he'd have to choose_. He'd thought he wouldn't have to, but hadn't he truly known all along? Hadn't he just closed his eyes to her suffering and pretended it wasn't his fault, as always?

No matter. He'd have to choose, making it his fault. And so, may all gods help and forgive him, Rhaegar chose.

He stormed into the room, pushing a maester out of the way. “Promise -”, she began. He grunted a no.

“Your Grace”, he heard someone say gently as he rolled up his sleeve, making for the hearth, “there is nothing to be done.”

He raked hot coals onto the stone floor, seeing two maesters and a maid stare at him with wide eyes. _“Out.”_

“But the young prince -”, one maester stammered. Rhaegar looked at him, the poker in his hand. “This prince commands you. Close the door. Leave the boy.” His son was crying.

Enough of the coals on the ground, Rhaegar took Lyanna's dragonglass knife and knelt before the smouldering heap. This was Dragonstone, and he should have known from the beginning who would help him here.

“Gods of my ancestors”, he intoned in High Valyrian, “Balerion, Vhagar, Syrax, Meraxes...” There were too many to name. He spoke the words, feeling the heat of the coals and drew from it; as here in the castle so down in the mountain, as one life left this plane another could be saved, because fire was the heat and spark of life and the coldness of death couldn't touch a princess of winter if she was only given a little help...

The incantation finished, Rhaegar pushed the dagger deep into his flesh, blood flowing out and sizzling when it hit the coals. Fire and blood – it had been so obvious.

The thunder was the loudest he'd heard so far; the lighting blindingly bright. Somewhere in the castle, a window shattered. Rhaegar fell forward onto the coals, smelling burnt fabric and feeling the pleasant sensation of sparks hitting his skin.

Just before he lost consciousness, he heard movement on the bed.


	38. 12/04/282 – Lyanna

_Dragonstone, the night of the births of Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Daenerys_

She came to with a start, disoriented.

Hadn't she just been dying? Lyanna was sure of it. She'd felt so _weak_, ever more dizzy, cold, her heart racing and breaths coming shallow. The end had been approaching, the gods calling for her to join them. At least the pain had subsided.

And then, there'd been the heat. A sudden wave of it had filled her, not like burning but like a soothing embrace as something entirely foreign and ancient had mended, strengthened her broken body.

She stared at a dark ceiling, dimly aware of a fire flickering, and of a weight on her chest. A weight?

Oh, by the _gods._ She had a son.

Lyanna scrambled to a sitting position, holding the babe to her breasts. He looked just like she'd seen him so many times. “Nurse, you little idiot”, she said, and felt relief when his tiny mouth latched onto her.

Then she looked through the room, and felt as if the cold had returned. Before the hearth, Rhaegar lay face-down in a bed of hot coals with blood pooling around him.

“_Help!”_, she shrieked, noting the closed door. Where was everyone? For hours, she'd been swarmed with maesters and maids. With her son in her arm, Lyanna crawled down from the bed, feeling strong and healthy even though the mattress had been completely soaked in blood.

“Rhaegar!” She fell onto her knees next to him, just about avoiding the burning coals. It smelled like his clothes were burning, too, and some of his hair smouldered. _“Rhaegar!”_

He didn't react when she shook him. The door flew open and two maesters took the situation in with complete shock. “Don't just stand there and gape”, she snapped. _“Help him.”_

They did their best to obey, shouting for more assistance as they turned Rhaegar around. One of them touched the coals and screamed – but when they revealed Rhaegar's front, it became obvious that he was entirely unburnt. His clothes weren't, with ugly black marks all over his tunic, but his skin was without blemish.

There was a deep cut in his arm, however. Lyanna stood on sure feet, still pressing her babe to her chest. Just as she directed them to carry Rhaegar to the bed a maid ran in, and actually fainted.

The maesters knew what to do about the cut, at least, quickly beginning to stitch it up. On the floor next to the coals, she saw her dragonglass dagger.

Lyanna began to understand just what had happened here. “Your Grace”, another maester gasped, coming from Queen Rhaella's room. The cries of another babe could be heard. “How -”

“How am I alive?”, she completed his sentence, and noticed that he had averted his gaze. “Do not concern yourself with that, but make sure that my husband is just as well as I am.”

There was a cough from the bed, then a groan, and the maesters tending to Rhaegar's arm jumped back. She tried to squeeze between them, barely aware that they drifted away from her as if her touch would be their death, and stared into his wide-open eyes.

After blinking a few times, he smirked. “You are terribly indecent.”

Looking down on herself, Lyanna finally realised that she was not only healed, but also entirely naked. And covered in blood – but what else was new?

Not much later, after the storm had settled, they'd moved from the Stone Drum to the Windwyrm; far away from all the blood and pain. Things were so strangely peaceful now – Lyanna was clean, dressed, and felt perfectly healthy. Rhaegar's cut was stitched up. The babes lay in their cribs, swaddled and fed, warmed by a brazier holding the three dragon eggs.

And the queen was dead. “We serve something greater than ourselves”, Rhaegar said as they stood in the nursery, staring out the window. From the floor above them, they could hear the king shouting at something.

Lyanna remained silent, looking into the steel-grey eyes of her son. “That is what she said to me”, her husband continued. “They were not her last words, but close.”

The little princess was bald, though there was no question as to how she would eventually look. There was something Lyanna thought she needed to know and yet truly, deeply, did not want to.

“What were her last words?”, she asked, not sure what else to say. She heard a loud sigh from the window, and Rhaegar coming closer. “Raise her for me.”

She nodded. “You will. We all will.” In her visions, she'd seen a woman who could only be Daenerys at her son's side. “They were born together”, she said.

“At the exact same time.” Rhaegar now stood behind her. “I asked the maesters, and none could tell me which one had come first. I could not possibly say what this means for now, but it is surely something.”

Lyanna took a deep breath and turned to face him. She did need to know, after all. “How did you save me?”, she asked, looking into his eyes.

“Fire and blood.” He turned away and sank into an armchair with a deep sigh, intensifying her suspicions. “Fire _is_ life, even for you. We are atop a mountain that burns. I know you miss your own gods here, but those of my ancestors are present and powerful in such a place.”

That was only half an answer. She didn't want to rub salt into his wounds, and yet, Lyanna _needed to know._ “You brought me back from the brink of death”, she said. “My body has healed completely. I feel as if I had never been with child at all, teats aside, when I remember Elia taking many weeks to recover from Aegon's birth. I had a cut on my hand from making the dragonglass knife, and it has disappeared.” She raised her arm, though it was covered. “Even my scars have faded somewhat. This was -” Lyanna walked towards him, only realising the full truth of what she was saying as she spoke it out loud, “the single most powerful act of sorcery I have ever heard of. Forget what we did to Lord Robert – death is easy. Life is not.”

“You weren't dead yet”, Rhaegar pointed out, his elbow on the armrest and face in his hand, massaging his temples. “We are in a place of strong magic, my blood carries at least as much power as yours, and you were healed.”

She crouched before him, her hands on his knees, and tried to look at his face. “Please. I need to know if...”

Rhaegar looked unbearably sad. “If I let my mother die to save you?”

Hearing the words caused an immediate knot in her throat and brought tears to her eyes, but Lyanna didn't look away. “I would not have put it in those terms -”

“No”, he interrupted. “Because that would not capture the situation correctly.” He rubbed his eyes. “It was either saving one of you, or neither. The latter wasn't an option.”

So it was true; not that she hadn't known all along. No gods would give such a great gift for nothing, and a few drops of blood (Targaryen or not) could not suffice.

What was more, Rhaegar had had the choice between her life or his mother's – and had chosen hers. Lyanna didn't know if she should be grateful or terrified.

She was sure that he could see the next question on her face, and Rhaegar took her hands to gently pull her up while he rose from the chair. “I could not possibly explain why I chose as I did”, he said, still holding her hands in his. “I could give the most cold and callous answer: we _do_ serve something greater; our feelings do not matter as much as the good of the dynasty and the realm – and from this perspective, your survival was more important than hers. But that was not what I thought about then, because I was not thinking at all.”

Lyanna wondered if she would have done the same. Him or either of her parents -

The answer came to her immediately, as disturbing as that was. “I understand”, she said.

The storm had done a fair amount of damage. Many of the villages on the island had suffered, and the castle was busy supplying materials and hands for repair. The ship they'd come on had been thrown against the rocks and was utterly destroyed. Some of the waves had to have been enormous, as they saw their white, salty traces on the black rock of the Dragonmont.

Lyanna noticed all of that as they rode down to the stoney beach, accompanied by the Kingsguard they'd brought to the island. Dry wood had been brought down from the castle, and after a service in the sept, they watched Queen Rhaella's body being laid upon the pyre.

Lyanna knew that her ashes would be placed in a beautiful urn. In Winterfell, she could walk past centuries of dead Starks down in the crypts, and somehow, it felt strange to her that there'd be so little of her good-mother left. Just as she'd thought that holding the ceremony far away from the capital and so soon after Rhaella's death wasn't worthy of a queen – until she saw the beach.

All the smallfolk were there. Standing silently in a large crowd, dressed in likely the best garb they owned, they bowed as Rhaegar neared. There was the occasional glimpse of silver hair among them.

“Today”, he proclaimed solemnly from horseback, “we rejoice, because two children were born. My son, Prince Jaehaerys, and my sister, Princess Daenerys.”

“Seven blessings!”, shouted a few people from the crowd. “Long may they live!”, some others.

Rhaegar acknowledged this with a nod, and took a lit torch from Ser Gerold. “And yet”, he continued, “we mourn, because my royal mother has given her life while bringing her child into the world. Queen Rhaella of House Targaryen, the blood of the dragon, will return to the flames from whence she came.”

Lyanna shuddered as all watched him light the pyre, flames spreading quickly along the straw that served as one layer. Dragons, indeed. It was all fire with the Targaryens.

“I thank you all for coming”, Rhaegar told the smallfolk. “Feast tonight. There will be food and ale provided to all villages.”

Then he rode back a few paces to where Lyanna sat on her horse. “She deserved so much better”, he said quietly.

That could not be denied. Flames soon engulfed Rhaella's pale body, but they stayed and watched for a long time. A slight rain began to set in after a while, though it wasn't enough to extinguish the flames. Only when the fire began to die down did Lyanna notice movement in the crowd formed by the smallfolk, and it wasn't because they were leaving.

They were pointing up. Confused, Lyanna looked to the sky, and heard Rhaegar gasp.

A red comet with a long tail had appeared. She'd never seen anything like it.

Lyanna met Rhaegar's gaze. “The bleeding star”, he said.

Undoubtedly. If she hadn't known about the prophecy, she'd have taken it for a dark omen – but it wasn't. It heralded the prince who was promised, born between the salty waves lashing against the Dragonmont and the smoke...

Which smoke, in fact? The pyre was burning right before her, and Lyanna's eyes followed the flames up, a surprisingly large amount of smoke up in the sky and -

It wasn't all coming from the pyre, she realised, her heart skipping a beat. It was coming from the castle.

She hadn't ridden this fast in years. The mare had come from Dragonstone's stables, surefooted on the pebbles and rocks lining the steep path leading up the mountain, though they only truly picked up speed at the top. The rain was getting stronger again, lashing at her face.

Lyanna likely would've enjoyed it, had it not become increasingly obvious that the smoke was coming from the Windwyrm.

Her mare made it through the castle gates and she jumped out of the saddle, Rhaegar right behind her. A fire was burning at the top of the tower, where the king lived, and had clearly spread further down since it had broken out.

Lyanna ran, not allowing herself to think that the smoke was coming out of the nursery window. “No, Your Grace!”, she heard, and found herself in the grip of Ser Barristan's white armour, struggling to get out. Rhaegar ran straight past her, shouting down Ser Adrian's objections.

“Let me go!”, she demanded, twisting and turning in Ser Barristan's arms. “I command you.”

“Princess, you cannot -”

Lyanna pushed away as much as she could, wriggling her arm free of his wet armour and, for lack of an alternative, punching Ser Barristan in the face. He only took the blow and looked at her apologetically. “It is too dangerous.”

“My _son_ is in there”, she growled. “You dare lay hands on a woman who has just given birth -”

This made his grip weaken just enough for her to slip free from under his arms. Lyanna took her skirts in hand and ran towards the tower, hearing Ser Barristan curse.

Ser Gerold was pursuing her as well, while Ser Adrian had followed Rhaegar inside. She didn't know where Ser Arthur was, though the remaining three had stayed in King's Landing – but if any of the Kingsguard wanted to keep their heads, at least one of them had to have been with the babes.

Through the claw-shaped gate she went, up the stairs. Shouts came from the higher levels and she was pushed out of the way by a boy carrying a bucket of water while taking two or three steps at once.

Lyanna kept going, constantly in danger of slipping on the puddles of spillage he left in his wake. There was the sound of something cracking – had the stone burst?

The knights' clanking armour was behind her, an intensifying smell of smoke in front. Lyanna went further up the spiral stairs, coughing and holding half her wet gown and underskirts around her hips.

The boy ran back down, nearly knocking her off her feet. He'd collide with the knights soon, she predicted, hastening her steps.

It was hot. Another crack resounded, leading her to fear that the entire tower was about to collapse. And one would think that the Valyrians would use stone that could take a bit of heat.

The knights swore when the boy ran into them, surely an entire floor below her. Above, someone was shouting about the king, while Rhaegar was giving commands much closer.

Where the nursery was. Despite the smoke and the heat, Lyanna kept going, even as a third crack surely signalled that they were all about to be buried in a formerly dragon-shaped heap of stone.

“Rhaegar, you can't -”, Ser Arthur's voice came through the smoke, immediately followed by a rather rude way of telling him to shut up. Lyanna made it to the floor containing the nursery, barged through the still-intact door leading out of the staircase, and was caught by a Kingsguard once again.

There was fire everywhere. She saw Rhaegar struggle through it with his sleeve pressed against his face while Ser Arthur held her in place. His armour was hot, just like all the air around them.

Desperate, Lyanna clawed at his face, but he was wearing a helmet and merely had to close his visor. She called out for Rhaegar, steadfastly marching towards the nursery even though it was where the flames seemed to be strongest. The heat, the smell, the knowledge that her little son was somewhere in that fire and that could only mean one thing -

Lyanna screamed despite the smoke filling her lungs, pummelling Ser Arthur's breastplate in helpless despair. How cruel were these Valyrian gods if they let such a thing happen.

The next moment, they were all knocked off their feet. To the sound of shattering windows, a sudden gust of wind swept through the entire floor, so strong it blew doors out of their hinges. Lyanna landed on the soot-covered carpet with a thud, Ser Arthur atop her, which was good as a piece of window frame had been blown towards them and harmlessly collided with his armour.

Everything was suddenly very cold – and very wet. The hallway had only the one window, but the rain came in like a stream, soaking everything within seconds.

_What?_, Lyanna thought, and then Rhaegar said: “Oh, obviously.”

She stared into Ser Arthur's eyes for a moment, both of them united in their confusion, before the knight got to his feet and helped her rise. The Sers Gerold and Barristan arrived, out of breath.

Lyanna didn't have time for them. She ran to the nursery, seeing Rhaegar standing in the door with an unreadable expression on his face. The strangest sounds were coming from it, but at least that meant that not everyone inside was dead.

When Lyanna reached the door, he grabbed her by the waist, though not to restrain her. It allowed for the both of them to see inside.

The scene was initially incomprehensible. Furniture was charred and broken, though also wet from the rain, and the remains of the windows were swinging back and forth. In one corner of the room, Lyanna spotted two figures she didn't grasp at first – until she came to the gruesome understanding that it had been the wet nurse and a maid, and that both of them had likely choked to death from the smoke.

Her son, evidently, had not. Between the broken-down remains of the cribs lay the two babes, swaddling clothes in burnt tatters, bodies completely unharmed. Her son was sleeping and she'd have taken him for dead if she hadn't been able to see his eyes move under their lids. Just how he could do so right then was a question she'd ask herself for many years after this, considering the enormity of the moment.

Little Daenerys had an altogether more appropriate reaction to situation, as she was staring wide-eyed at the first thing that had caught Lyanna's attention. Whenever recalling this situation later on, she would start by reminding herself of the details – since of course, the wet nurse and the maid mattered; they'd had names and children of their own, and to make them an afterthought would be to dismiss them.

And while Lyanna believed that with all her heart, there was no denying that something of much greater importance had occurred here. Because just under the brazier, between three broken, jewel-coloured shells, sat what she could only assume to be three newly hatched dragons.

Rhaegar dropped to his knees, staring at the creatures. One was black, one green, one cream-coloured.

Ser Arthur ran towards them after having exchanged words with the other knights. The black dragon waddled towards Daenerys, tenderly placing its head by the babe's face.

The clank of armour announced a new arrival coming in from the stairwell, as Ser Adrian rushed inside.

The green dragon slowly approached her son. _“Obviously”_, Lyanna quoted at her husband. “What is obvious about _this_?”

Ser Arthur reached them, his eyes widening. “A moment of magic”, Rhaegar replied.

The green dragon touched her little prince, causing him to sleepily blink at the world.

“Your Graces”, Ser Adrian panted, hurrying towards them. “The king laid the fire, the king -”

Her son didn't cry, but calmly fixed the green dragon with his gaze. Rhaegar reached for her hand.

“The king is dead”, Ser Adrian finished.

If Lyanna had been prone to fainting, this would have been the moment to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well those have been some eventful 24 hours.
> 
> To be fair to the maesters, it probably looked like Lyanna had murdered Rhaegar when they first came in.
> 
> There are hints at a strong connection between the people of Dragonstone (the island) and House Targaryen – or, more than hints if you go back far enough and consider the dragonseeds, really. Anyway, love the idea of this ancient bond between the people and the House, and since we've only seen Dragonstone with Stannis ruling it in canon, it could even be true.


	39. 13/04/282 – Elia

_King's Landing, the morning after the births of Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Daenerys_

They watched the red comet, awe-struck.

“The bleeding star”, Archmaester Marwyn said. “Prophecy might be fickle, but this is as clear as it can get.”

If there had ever been any doubt that they'd been right, it was now gone.

“We should expect a raven soon, then”, said Oberyn, stating the obvious. They knew there'd been a heavy storm over the Gullet, though it hadn't extended into the bay. While there was no question that the castle would've withstood it, no messages could have been sent before it settled.

“The prince who was promised.” Elia looked at the comet, truly as red as blood. “I can only hope that Lyanna will recover quickly. Birth is difficult, to say the least – and who knows, mayhaps Rhaella's child will come soon, or already has.” She looked down from the window they stood next to, observing how the castle came to life, with many of its inhabitants pointing to the sky. “Rhaenys was dreaming all night”, she added. “She keeps speaking of dragons, even more so than usual.”

Marwyn hummed. “And what might that mean?”, he asked in a tone that made clear he had an inkling.

Both Elia and Oberyn looked at him, though neither said what they thought he was implying. It was too immense of a possibility to speak out loud, or even think.

She had no time to anxiously sit and wait for news from Dragonstone. Rhaegar had left her in charge of realm and court, and so Elia attended the small council, stood next to Lord Arryn as he heard petitioners to guide his decisions, and spent time with the countless ladies and children now inhabiting the Red Keep.

She was on her way to the gardens, where she'd host mothers and the youngest children for an afternoon or music and stories. Rhaenys was being carried by Ashara behind her, as she knew that Alerie Tyrell was always eager to have her youngest son spend much time with the little princess – two-year old Loras was not old enough to be playing with wooden swords like his brothers, Renly Baratheon, Edmure Tully, and Viserys. Elia was very sure that Lady Alerie was hoping for a future betrothal either between Rhaenys and one of her sons, or Aegon and her two-moon old daughter Margaery.

Crossing a corridor leading out to a small courtyard, she heard voices that piqued her interest. Giving Ashara a sign to stop, Elia peeked past the columns.

In the courtyard, Cersei Lannister was shoving her brother Tyrion just before Ser Jaime stepped between them. “You little monster”, she heard Cersei say. “First you kill Mother, then you try to take my birthright -”

Tyrion's voice sounded choked up, though his words were defiant. “Jaime's birthright, if anything”, he said, arms crossed as he stared up at his sister. “But he's in the Kingsguard, and now the Rock belongs to me.”

“Father would have never allowed for this”, Cersei fumed, prompting Ser Jaime to gently lay a hand on her shoulder.

Lord Tyrion's tone was surprisingly hard for a nine-year-old. “Father is dead.”

“And whose fault is that?” Lady Cersei tried to push Ser Jaime out of the way. “If I find out that you were part of this -”

“Cersei.” Ser Jaime was holding both her shoulders now. “Tyrion is a child, and Father had a terrible illness.”

While this was very interesting, Elia didn't appreciate a knight of the Kingsguard forgetting his duties. “Ser Jaime!”, she called out sharply, stepping into the courtyard. The Lannister siblings spun around to her in unison, faces showing varying degrees of alarm.

“I had thought you to be with Prince Viserys”, she said, looking at the knight. “A boy of his age can hardly be expected to learn riding by himself.”

Face red, he bowed. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I was just on my way”, he mumbled before hurrying away, nearly running into Ashara in the process.

“Lady Baratheon.” Both women gave each other the least convincing smiles they could manage. “I believe the Lady Lysa was looking for you. She and the other young ladies are sewing in the Maidenvault.”

It was striking how such beautiful eyes could show so much rage. “I do love the Lady Lysa”, Cersei said sweetly. “Thank you for letting me know, Your Grace; I will seek her out posthaste.”

With a mere suggestion of a curtsey, she went off, most likely heading for any place that wasn't the Maidenvault. Elia looked after her for a moment, striding with her head held high and not sparing a glance for Ashara.

Then, she turned to Tyrion. “Lord Lannister. Willas and Garlan Tyrell are on the practice grounds, and I am sure they would appreciate your company.”

The boy's face looked pained. “Willas doesn't really try when we're told to fight, and even Garlan could beat me easily.” And that even though Willas was one year his junior, and Garlan four.

It had been the wrong thing to suggest, that much was clear. Elia felt sorry for the boy – she knew very well how much derision he'd faced even as an infant, and growing up into a stunted and admittedly very ugly child could not have helped.

“Then perhaps you could come with me”, she said. “I am planning on reading to the young children in the gardens – they so love to hear stories, but my voice turns hoarse long before they lose interest. I could use some help, in fact.”

His green eye looked hopeful, the black suspicious. He always seemed to expect mockery.

Then, however, he bowed. “I'd be happy to help, Your Grace.”

Elia smiled and they made for the gardens, her measuring her steps to accommodate his short strides. She truly wanted to help this boy and make the rest of his childhood happier than the beginning – and she knew that doing so could only create a Lord of Casterly Rock sympathetic to the Crown.

Later, as the toddlers' captivated gazes followed the young Lord Lannister's reading from a book on the legends of the Reach that Lady Alerie had provided, Elia saw Oberyn appear at the edge of the garden. He didn't approach, so she excused herself and went up to him, noticing as she neared that his face showed a myriad of barely concealed emotions. “What happened?”, she asked.

He slowly shook his head, eyes wide. “What didn't happen? This came”, he handed her a raven scroll, “and then shortly after, this.” Another one, both with Rhaegar's broken sigil.

“You could have waited for me before opening them”, she said, and he shook his head. “How? The glass candle is burning.”

That interrupted her from reading the first message. “What does that mean?”

He nodded down to the scrolls. “You will see.”

So she did, and soon understood. “By the _gods_”, she finally got out, and both of them stared at each other, not daring to express their shock, joy, and awe.

“Where shall we even begin?”, she asked. “Should we announce all of this already?” The only thing she knew was that another ship had to be sent to Dragonstone.

Oberyn seemed to have an answer to her first question, at least, because he bowed before her with a smile that wasn't even mocking. “It is your decision, my queen.”

_Two days later_

As soon as they'd closed the door to his rooms behind them, Elia turned to pull Rhaegar into a tight embrace.

When her own lady mother had died, she'd had Doran and Oberyn. The three of them had shared their grief, which had been of tremendous help. Rhaegar's siblings were six years and three days old respectively, and could hardly be expected to comfort him.

He held her close for a moment, pressed against his velvet doublet. When he brought his head down, the tips of his hair tickled her face. “I missed you”, he whispered and placed a kiss next to her ear. She caught his eye and saw the sadness in it, then he straightened himself, but didn't have to regain his composure.

“I cannot _believe_ all you have been through”, Elia said as she turned to Lyanna, then kissed her cheeks. “Please, the both of you, explain everything to me. Slowly, and in detail.”

Her husband – _the king_ – nodded, then did just that, with Lyanna filling in the (few) gaps.

When they were done recounting exactly what had happened, she made herself simply accept the events for what they were. Years ago, when she'd first been told that her betrothal to Rhaegar had been secured, she had expected much... but perhaps not quite this.

“Well”, she said finally. “I have not yet announced it all, but you must, especially as rumours abound. I did take the liberty of informing the High Septon of your father's death as soon as I had heard. Preparations are underway, and you will be crowned in a week.”

“Good.” Rhaegar sat in an armchair, legs stretched out before him. “Do let him know that I want him to place crowns on both your heads as well, just to avoid any misunderstandings. And I do not wish to use my father's crown – which is, in fact, not in the best of shapes after I had had it placed upon his pyre. A week should be enough to make a new one, and to adapt your tiaras.”

“Perhaps you should have a dragon on yours”, she mused. “Everyone has heard about them anyway. There are all sorts of nicknames for you now; some sort of reverse Aegon the Dragonbane, but all I have heard are awful. You can ask Oberyn if you want any details.”

Rhaegar frowned slightly. “It was not I who made these dragons hatch – I believe.”

“Well, in a way”, Lyanna said. “Even if it was all our son, or Daenerys, or both – you certainly contributed to the circumstances.”

Elia laughed. “Quite the euphemism.”

“No, I mean -”, began Lyanna, and she waved her off. “I know. Either way, it hardly matters. If people are busy talking about you returning dragons to House Targaryen, they may forget to speculate about you killing your father.”

Rhaegar groaned at that, and Lyanna shook her head. “There were enough people at Dragonstone to see that Rhaegar was at the beach when the fire started, and it was clear that the king -”, she stopped, “that King Aerys was at fault.”

Elia shrugged. “People will still talk. Not that it matters now, because you”, she smiled widely at her husband, _“have dragons.”_

He returned her smile, and now, she could see the same giddy excitement on his face that she was feeling. “I do, don't I? Come.” Suddenly energised, he rose. “You should see them.”

When she'd met them at the docks, Elia had briefly been introduced to the babes before their wet nurse and Ser Gerold had taken them into a litter. The dragons had been in wooden boxes that she'd barely seen, carried by the other Kingsguard.

Now, they were in Marwyn's study, the room illuminated by the strangely intense light of his glass candle. The archmaester was furiously scribbling on parchments and ignoring all the humans present – her, Rhaegar, and Lyanna, as well as Oberyn, Lord Arryn, Jon Connington, and Ned Stark.

All were in the same state of disbelief. The creatures sat atop an unlit brazier in a pile of thin limbs and glittering scales, apparently sleepy, though they occasionally hissed at each other.

Oberyn was the first to move, slowly approaching them with a wide grin on his face. All watched as he got closer and closer until the black-and-red dragon's head jerked up and he screeched at her brother, nostrils letting out a tiny cloud of smoke.

With a laugh of pure delight, Oberyn stepped back. “This is the best day of my life”, he announced.

“They are magnificent, Your Grace”, Jon Arryn said. “Full court will convene in an hour. You must announce the deaths of your royal parents, the births – and show these dragons in the throne room. If anyone ever had any doubt regarding your rule, this will dispel them all.”

Elia agreed, already planning the visual in her mind: who would stand where, and how the dragons would surround Rhaegar as he sat on the Iron Throne. It was a sublime picture, and even if the coronation would need to wait, he was already king.

She'd thought about that much ever since she'd heard of Aerys' death. _King Rhaegar_. Such beautiful words.

“Now, how exactly did this happen?”, Lord Eddard interrupted her thoughts, standing at a safe distance from the dragons.

“Oh, by the gods”, Lyanna sighed. “It is a long story. I will tell you later.”

“Well, in fact”, Lord Arryn said, “I would quite like to hear it as well, because a number of delicate questions will arise. King Aerys' death will be questioned by some, as will...”, he hesitated. “Your Grace's excellent health so soon after giving birth.”

Eddard nodded to that, Oberyn raised an eyebrow, and Rhaegar's expression hardened. “The first is easily explained. The second -”

“Was a gift from the gods”, Lyanna cut in. That was as good of an explanation as any, Elia supposed, considering that the full truth was more difficult and complicated.

Lord Arryn appeared slightly irritated. “Forgive me, Your Graces, but – ever since I have begun serving as Hand, I have received very little explanation regarding a great number of events. I am aware that trust must be earned, but I do not believe that I have given you reason to doubt -”

Jon Connington cleared his throat. He hadn't spoken the entire time, only looking back and forth between Rhaegar and the dragons with obvious adoration. “What explanation do you expect, my lord?”, he asked with a hoarse voice. “Dragons. A miraculous recovery immediately after childbirth. A tendency to know things lying in the future with perfect certainty. And have I mentioned the _dragons_? Nothing is being hidden from you when our king”, he grinned at the title, and Elia felt herself doing the same, “and his queens say that something came from the gods. It is simply what happened.”

Lord Arryn's reluctance to accept this was clear on his face, until his eyes darted back to the brazier. “I suppose so”, he said, sounding surprised with himself.

Ser Arthur's knock sounded on the door, followed by him and Viserys. Telling him about his parents' deaths had been terrible and heartbreaking, but Elia hoped that the dragons would cheer him up.

It seemed to work. As soon as he walked in, his eyes went wide and his mouth flew open, though he wasn't even able to see the top of the brazier that clearly.

Smiling, Rhaegar approached the dragons, stretching his hand out to them. After some consideration, it was the cream one that climbed onto his arm.

Elia stepped back reverently, as did all the others, while Rhaegar went to one knee and showed the dragon to Viserys. The little prince offered his hand in turn, and the dragon sniffed it like a cat.

“I do not yet know what we shall call them”, he said in a low voice. “Perhaps you could name this one, brother.”

The boy's gaze was fixed on the dragon's golden eyes. “I don't know”, he said. “Can I think about it?”

Rhaegar smiled. “You should. It is not a decision to be taken lightly.”

Viserys looked very serious. “If you say so.” Then he furrowed his brow and looked up at Rhaegar. “Are you the king now?”

His face turned more sombre. “Yes, I am.” With a sigh, Rhaegar rose again – a bit too quickly for the dragon, who fluttered onto the brazier with a hiss. “Come”, he then said to Viserys. “You have yet to meet your nephew and our sister.”

The boy took the hand he offered. “We have a sister”, he said knowingly, following Rhaegar out of the room. “And that is why Mother is gone?”

They didn't hear Rhaegar's answer as the door fell shut, but his tone was sad. Elia looked around the room, where everyone seemed to share the same feelings.

It was a shame Viserys didn't get along with Lord Tyrion, she thought. They might have made for good friends.

Not long after, they were in the throne room to announce all that had happened. Just before, they'd introduced the dragons to her children, to Rhaenys' great joy.

Rhaegar had long studied anything his family or maesters close to them had ever written regarding dragons, and had an idea as to how to raise them. Archmaester Marwyn was busy going through any sources he'd brought from Oldtown, too.

They did not yet know what they'd name them, nor who'd ride them once the time came. One for Daenerys and one for Jaehaerys, it would seem, though the third remained somewhat unclear.

What they did know, however, was that the creatures showed a clear preference for Targaryens, who seemed to be the only ones whose touch they'd tolerate. When he held court, they appeared happy enough to doze in Rhaegar's lap while he sat on the throne.

The image Elia had planned out materialised perfectly, and had the desired effect on the lords and ladies. There he was, not yet with a crown but a circlet, regal and beautiful and exuding power -

As she had to silently admit, the effect on herself was stronger than she'd expected. As soon as they'd returned to Maegor's, she dragged him into her rooms.

“What is this about -”, he began to ask, only for Elia to grab his neck and kiss him feverishly, moaning when she felt his hands on her bodice. “I just wanted”, she got out between kisses, frantic fingers on his doublet, “to welcome you back”, these fastenings were unnecessarily complicated, “properly”, he took a few steps forward to press her against a wall, “my _king_.”

“Ah”, he said, stopping to look at her with his purple eyes, full of both lust and mirth. “That is it, yes? You enjoy the thought of my being king?”

There was no use in pretending otherwise. “Apparently so”, she said, then gasped when he ripped at the lacings of her gown. One learned something new about oneself every day, as someone had once probably said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia's long-term political strategy rests, to an extent, on just adopting half the future lords of Westeros (when she's not too distracted by being turned on by the concept of King Rhaegar).


	40. 20/04/282 – Rhaegar

_King's Landing, the day of the coronation of His Grace King Rhaegar_

He was kneeling before the High Septon, and annoyed about it.

Did it make sense for the king to be anointed by the gods' chosen representative on earth? He supposed so, though the Seven, much as he loved them, weren't the only gods his people followed.

He understood the political reasons for such a coronation, of course, but it bothered him from a theological perspective. Especially considering that this High Septon cared less for the gods than any common pauper. There was nothing to be gained by having him smear seven different oils on Rhaegar's forehead, even more so because he likely didn't understand why these seven had been chosen, and it made no sense to hear him say the prayers that truly ought to be rewritten.

In a way, this was more of a debasement than an honour. A necessary one, however, and so he endured. “I hereby proclaim thee, Rhaegar of House Targaryen, First of Your Name, the King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men”, his crown was finally placed upon his head, “Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

He'd ultimately settled on a design with seven points, the base of his platinum crown adorned with rubies and etched with three dragons. The nobles cheered, though the High Septon wasn't done.

Elia sank onto her knees next to him with grace, Lyanna with a reluctance that he hoped wasn't too obvious to most others. Both were proclaimed queen consort, one with a sunburst crown and the other a weirwood one.

While the High Septon finished the proceedings with a hymn (he wasn't a very good singer), Rhaegar thought about the crown upon his head. He thanked the Seven for all they'd helped him with; for this crown and his wives and children and siblings and the dragons. _I beg of You, Father Above, to impart Your wisdom and judgement upon me, so I may rule as wisely as You would._

The crown was heavy, as it should be. _And thank you, my actual father somewhere in the deepest of the seven hells, for accelerating your own demise. Several years late, perhaps, but at least you spared me from having to take things into my own hands. May you suffer in perpetuity._

Uncharitable thoughts to think in a sept, but if there'd ever been one who'd deserved it, it was the king he now replaced. Reassuringly, he hadn't felt joy at seeing Aerys' burnt and twisted body – but a certain relief nonetheless. It had been nowhere near as painful as his mother's death.

“Rise, my king”, the High Septon told him, “and queens.”

They did, and His High Holiness knelt before Rhaegar in turn. When he faced the crowd, all of them did the same.

The endless rituals of kingship. He looked at Elia and had to smirk when he saw her gaze, thinking that she likely took much more pleasure in this moment than he did. On his other side, Lyanna wore a small smile, even though her eyes darted restlessly over the highborn and towards the exit.

He agreed: it was time to leave. As they slowly made their way through the Great Sept, he observed those kneeling at the sides – his old friends and allies, such as Oberyn and Jon; those he'd gained at Harrenhal, including his Hand, the Tyrells, and Eddard Stark; Stannis Baratheon and Lady Cersei, whose Houses he'd brought back into the fold through murder and a presumably unhappy marriage; children like Edmure Tully and Tyrion Lannister, now being raised at court to assure their loyalty later in life.

Through the Hall of Lamps they went and outside onto the plaza, immediately welcomed by an adoring crowd. The people of King's Landing had always been his, easy as it was to win them over with smiles, song, and coin. He'd have to take care to not remain holed up in the Red Keep, lest they forgot why they loved him.

Naturally, there was a great feast. Fine food, good musicians, endless toasts to the new king – there hadn't been an enormous amount of time to organise the proceedings, but it had turned into a suitably grand occasion. Rhaegar found himself enjoying it.

In the later stages of the celebration, he noticed that Oberyn and Lady Dacey were holding a knife-throwing contest, which was never a good idea for two people as drunk as them, but at least they were aiming at a shield in a corner far removed from any other guests. Lord Eddard and Lady Ashara weren't in the best of moods, most likely because they'd heard during the day that the weather in the North had turned vicious, and their voyage to Winterfell would need to be delayed – which also meant that they wouldn't be wed for a while longer. “This is silly”, Elia declared as they watched them from the high table, speaking at a respectable distance with obvious longing in their eyes. “Ashara has not been a maid since the age of five-and-ten. They may as well do what they yearn for so much.”

Lyanna frowned at that. “I do not believe that Ned knows this.”

“Of course he does not, and you will not tell him”, Elia replied, then rose and took Lyanna by both hands. “Come, sister, let us dance.”

“You never call me sister”, Lyanna pointed out, confusedly letting herself be dragged along. “And how will we dance with each other?”

“We will find out. If it ends up a clumsy mess it makes no matter, as everyone is too drunk to notice anyway.”

Rhaegar looked after them, smiling. Here they were, so beautiful in their red gowns and splendid crowns, happy and healthy and the queens they were always meant to be. And his, both of them.

A chair being pulled up next to him interrupted his observation, though he was glad to see that it was Jon, who gave a half-serious bow before seating himself. “My king”, he said with a wide grin, holding a cup of wine he was in danger of spilling.

Rhaegar had to grin back. “My lord. You seem in high spirits.”

“I am.” His old friend managed to place the cup on the table. “I wish this day had come sooner, but still. You have it all! _And_ dragons!”

What had he ever done to deserve a friend like him? Jon would burn down his own keep if he'd think it might make Rhaegar happy. “I do, yes”, he said. “Gifts from the gods, as you explained so well to Lord Arryn – even if they are not given to reward me, but rather because I must use them to do what needs to be done.” The thought was sobering. “I hope I can.”

Jon drank, then groaned. “Doom and gloom. And there I was thinking I might see you smile for a whole night.”

“You know me better than that.” Rhaegar reached for a flagon of wine to refill his own cup, and Jon pushed his empty one toward him. “Is that wise?”, he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Why on earth not? If I have a headache on the morrow, then I will sleep it off. Nobody in this castle will rise before midday.”

Looking through the room, Rhaegar noticed that Jon was quite right. His friend seemed to exemplify the average level of drunkenness – while Elia and Lyanna were twirling each other around, laughing brightly, many others were stumbling in their steps. Lord Eddard and Lady Ashara had progressed to holding hands, Arthur occasionally glancing at them while he sat with Oberyn and Lady Dacey, who'd thankfully abandoned their knives. They were also being watched by a sourly Barbrey Ryswell, part of a group of mostly northern ladies gossiping with increasingly loud voices. Lysa Tully was among them as well, while Lady Cersei had stormed off a while ago, leaving her husband to sit in the most civilised (yet still quite inebriated) corner of the room with the rest of the small council, including Lady Alerie. Of the Kingsguard, Ser Gerold and Ser Barristan were sober and guarding the proceedings, as they should, with the rest at Maegor's to watch over the children – although Rhaegar could have sworn that Ser Jaime was supposed to be here.

“Fine”, he concluded, refilling Jon's cup. “You are no longer my squire, after all.”

“You never told me what I could and couldn't do when I was”, Jon said, which Rhaegar had to admit was largely true.

“It would have felt strange after we'd both been in the same position with Ser Gerold”, he explained, then heard himself sigh. “Things seemed somewhat easier back then, did they not?”

Jon looked at him in disbelief before breaking out into a laugh. “Hardly. I remember you being miserable immediately after unhorsing Ser Barristan at Lannisport, for instance, or how you seemed happy enough as you knighted me and that lasted only for about two heartbeats, or truly _any_ time at Summerhall...”

Rhaegar leaned back. “Well, maybe you are right. I did not know about the Others then, however.”

“Doom and gloom”, Jon repeated, taking a swig from his cup. “So what now? What is your plan?”

“We will tell the small council on the morrow.” He smiled as he watched Lyanna stumble after Elia had spun her in a long pirouette, laughing breathlessly. “Then we had planned on travelling north, but the return of winter has made this somewhat more difficult. We will visit Dorne first instead, even if it means that those two”, a nod to Eddard and Ashara, “will need to wait a while longer.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “They could simply wed here, either in the godswood or the sept.”

“Lord Stark seems to disagree. His bannermen are unhappy that none of his children were matched with one of theirs, and he believes that a wedding at Winterfell might help in legitimising the union.” This wine really was quite good. “Further, I believe we can all agree that simply seeing Lady Ashara should make it clear that she is a worthy match.”

Jon hummed in acknowledgement. Rhaegar did not desire her, but none could deny that she was one of the greatest beauties in the realm.

Then, he frowned. “When will _you_ wed, in fact?”

At that, Jon drained his cup and snatched the flagon out of Rhaegar's grasp so he could refill it. “Eventually, I suppose. I am aware that I must.”

He did not sound overly enthusiastic. Rhaegar pointed his chin towards the largest group of ladies and told him: “Most of them are unpromised. You are a lord of your own keep, you are young, you are known as an old friend of the king's. You could pick any of them, and most likely still haggle for a generous dowry.”

Jon drank more. “I might enquire about Lord Morrigen's daughter. You may recall that my lord father and hers had a disagreement about our borders; perhaps it could be resolved that way.”

Rhaegar tried to remember if he'd ever met the lady, but wasn't sure. “You may as well, if you are not interested in any other.” At Jon's still-grim face, he had to laugh. “Who are you, Stannis Baratheon? Marriage is not altogether that bad.”

His friend's expression twisted into something somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “What?”, Rhaegar asked.

Jon looked to be weighing something in his mind, looking from one side of the room to the other. “To all seven hells with it”, he then murmured, emptied his cup yet again, and faced Rhaegar. “For how many years have you been friends with Prince Oberyn, now?”

He considered that rather unexpected question. “Ten years, almost exactly.”

Jon nodded. “And I assume you know about his”, he poured the rest of the flagon into his cup, “preferences?”

“He is not shy about them.” Oberyn liked to state that it would be a sin to waste all the beauty the gods had put on earth.

“And you are aware that some men only desire their own sex?” It was quite impressive how coherent he still was.

“Obviously”, he replied, and Jon gave him a meaningful look. _“Oh”_, Rhaegar said then, quickly digesting that realisation. “Well, I suppose that makes a fair amount of sense.” If one considered that Jon had never expressed any real interest in any lady.

His friend seemed to try to suppress a laugh, but failed. Curious, Rhaegar began to say: “So is there any -”

“I would prefer you didn't ask.” Jon drank deep again.

While that only spurred his curiosity further, his friend did have a right to keep this to himself – especially since, as Oberyn liked to point out, liaisons between men could be pursued without considering any dynastic implications. “I can see why you would not be looking forward to your wedding night, then”, Rhaegar stated, “but you are neither the first nor the last in this situation. As all others before you, you will need to simply”, he hesitated, “get on with it and think of whoever it is you truly desire.”

With another laugh, Jon stood, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like the words _“brilliant fool”_. “Be that as it may”, he said, staggering, “I am going for a piss.”

Rhaegar watched after him as he stumbled out of the room, bumping into Lyanna on his way out. His wives arrived with flushed cheeks and wide smiles, falling into their seats with obvious exhaustion. “What did Connington say?”, Elia asked him.

“Oh...” Rhaegar would eventually tell them both, but not here and now. “Nothing in particular.”

“Good king!”, came Oberyn's voice from across the room, loud and slurred. “You have not sung yet!”

He'd been waiting for that, and gestured at a servant. A king had to give his subjects what they wanted, after all.

_The next afternoon_

“The small council grows larger yet”, Lord Velaryon commented as all had taken their seats in the chamber. While Elia's attendance was nothing unusual, he'd now added the members of the unofficial second council: Lyanna, Lord Eddard, and Archmaester Marwyn.

The latter was exchanging poisonous looks with Grand Maester Agrivane, which Rhaegar ignored. “We are speaking of an unusual matter today”, he explained. “I hope all of you, my lords, have recovered from the feast last night.”

Some, like Lord Baratheon, appeared untouched. Others, including Oberyn, looked half dead. “It was a good feast”, Lord Blackwood said.

“I am pleased to hear that.” Rhaegar considered his next words. “Now, during this first council I hold as king, we must speak of something entirely different. If any of you have any doubts regarding the truth of the matter we will now inform you of, please do keep in mind that we have absolutely no reason to invent it – and that dragons have not returned to the world without reason.” Under their curious glances, he nodded at Lyanna. “Please begin.”

She took a deep breath, and told them all. That they knew that the mythical Others were bound to return within a generation, coming from beyond the Wall. That they would bring the Long Night; a period of perpetual cold and darkness. That they were able to awaken the dead and turn them into mindless servants. That they were sure to exterminate all life. And about the prince who was promised, and how they had come to all this knowledge.

When Lyanna was done, Grand Maester Agrivane cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Your Graces, but this is a child's tale. Like all magical things, the Others – if they ever existed – have long left this world -”

“Magical things such as dragons?”, Rhaegar asked. “And glass candles? Archmaester Marwyn, if you would...”

Agrivane pointed at Marwyn accusingly. “I still do not understand why this charlatan is even here, Your Grace.”

The archmaester scoffed, and placed a wooden box on the table. When he opened it, the strange light already shone through, intensifying once he took the glass candle out. It was too bright, heightening all contrasts and deepening all colours around them, so obviously supernatural that it couldn't be denied. “Remember your vigil, Agrivane?”, Marwyn asked. “I bet you, like all others, spent the entire night trying to light it. And oh, weren't you embarrassed once they told you that it had merely been an exercise to make you understand the higher mysteries were false. How great is the wisdom of the Citadel, showing all its acolytes that magic is no more.” Quite aggressively, he pushed the candle closer to the Grand Maester. “Look, Agrivane. Look at how it's all gone, and how no glass candle will ever burn again. It is evident to anyone who cannot see.”

The Grand Maester's shock was apparent. “How?”, he asked with pure disbelief.

“The moment the dragons hatched”, Oberyn explained. “The dragons returned to the world, the glass candles lit up, the red comet heralded -”

“Oh, _please_. A comet is merely a falling star -”

“The _bleeding star_”, Lyanna interrupted. “After the night my son was born from a union of ice and fire, there was the salt and the smoke and the comet as well. You cannot possibly know all this and dismiss it.”

There was a brief silence, with Agrivane clearly unable to argue against their words, but unwilling to acknowledge their truth. “For how long have you known this, Your Graces?”, Lord Arryn asked then.

“A while”, Rhaegar said. “Though we were attempting to gather any information we could before telling my lords. Now.” There was much to do. “There is time. The Night's Watch must be strengthened substantially, and I will require every House in Westeros to provide both men and coin so the ruined castles at the Wall can be manned and rebuilt. As we know that the threat will come from the North, this is where most of our preparations will take place.” He looked at Ned Stark. “Your lord father is aware of it all.”

“He is, Your Grace. And my brother Benjen is now serving at the Wall, as a ranger.”

Rhaegar nodded. “To facilitate the actions we must take in the coming years, I am appointing Lord Eddard as royal legate to the North. Neither I nor Queen Lyanna will be able to travel back and forth between Winterfell and King's Landing as much as the situation demands.”

“Of course, Your Grace”, he said, having already been aware of the plan.

“Everything else will depend on how much information we can gather”, he continued. “The Citadel, Grand Maester, must devote much of its time and resources to studying the matter.”

Staring at a silent Agrivane, Marwyn added: “If they don't believe the king, they still have two glass candles left. Tell them to take a look.”

The entire wretched institution, so long devoted to banishing magic from the world, was in for a shock. If Rhaegar could, he would gladly dissolve it and built it back up from the ground again, with Marwyn as its head.

“Should there be any problems in this regard”, he said, “I will hold both you, Grand Maester, and you, Lord Tyrell, accountable.” When Mace's face betrayed panic, he went on. “Your lord good-father holds a certain influence, I believe.” Tyrell couldn't pretend that the Hightowers didn't have anything to do with the maesters, after all.

“If any of you remain sceptical, we understand”, Elia said. “However, this is a very real threat. Lord Baratheon and Lord Velaryon, please feel free to come to either me or the king with any questions. Lord Blackwood, you should rather address Queen Lyanna in this regard.”

Lyanna smiled at the master of laws. “Or simply visit the godswood, my lord.”

He sighed as they entered his chambers, falling onto a couch. “It appears that kingship is tiring work.”

Elia laughed at that. “It is no different than being Lord Regent. You simply had too much wine last night, and did not sleep enough.”

That was true. “And why did I not sleep?”, he asked as he lay down, remembering how relentlessly demanding she'd been in bed. Elia only replied with another laugh, though it was clear that Lyanna had understood when she gestured at him to raise his head, and then sat so he could lay it on her lap. “Do not tire him out like this”, she told Elia. “What is there left for me, then? A husband who will fall into bed and immediately begin snoring.”

Rhaegar glared at her, though that disappeared when he felt her hand in his hair, endlessly relaxing. “I believe you are misrepresenting things”, he said, feeling like he could fall asleep right there. “And I do not snore.”

He wasn't quite sure when they'd started to be able to jest about these matters, but he wasn't complaining, even when his wives began to discuss the exact circumstances in which he did – allegedly – snore. Not any more could he complain about needing to satisfy both, because lust was fire and fire was _life_. Elia knew what she wanted (a king, clearly) while Lyanna was still eager to entirely get to know her own desires. Rhaegar, meanwhile, simply wanted them both, whichever exact way they'd prefer.

What he didn't want, however, was Lyanna's finger poking his temple. “This is no time to fall asleep.”

He forced his eyes open. “You should not have made me so comfortable, then.”

“No excuses”, Elia said, standing over them. “We are all tired, but life goes on. The babes need attention, as do the dragons, and Rhaenys especially...”

With an exaggerated groan, he made himself sit up, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There is no court today?”

Behind him, Lyanna snorted. “They are all asleep. I saw Lord Blackwood stumble when he got up after the small council, and Lord Velaryon looked sedate the whole time.”

“The entire castle is either sleeping, or wishing they were”, Elia added. “Truly, all we need to do for now is to spend time with our children.”

That actually sounded quite good. “Have them all brought here”, Rhaegar decided, mostly wanting to see Rhaenys. She was the only one of the littlest ones able to say a few words, which did make her far more interesting than the others. “And Viserys – all the children, in fact.” It wouldn't help with the headache he was beginning to feel, but they'd be terribly bored with all the grown men and women sleeping off the effects of the vast amounts of wine they'd had last night. “They can listen to stories or song or stare at the dragons, or whatever it is they like to do.”

Rhaegar couldn't claim that he understood children; he hadn't even done so when he'd been one himself. He was determined, however, to ensure that the ones at court would receive all the care and attention they needed. Whether this was out of a wish to rectify his father's actions or out of the knowledge that they were the future of this realm, he wasn't sure. It was likely both – not that it mattered, as long as the outcome was the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only Westeros had coffee.


	41. 15/06/282

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a change here – I couldn't decide whose POV I wanted to use for these last two chapters, so I chose all of them.

_Sunspear, the 6th moon of the year 282 AC_

_Lyanna_

She didn't like ships.

The way from King's Landing to Dragonstone had at least been quick, but Lyanna would've given much to travel to Dorne on horseback instead. _Queen Shaera_, the great flagship of the royal fleet, was by all accounts formidable – if only it would stop rocking back and forth the whole time. She was sick so often that they feared she could be with child again, even though it was the time of her moon blood (which most likely didn't help with the nausea).

Rhaegar did not seem bothered at all, Elia was giddy with excitement, and Prince Oberyn acted as if he was a sailor himself. On the day they had promised her would be the last, Lyanna sat on deck, trying to calm her upset stomach with deep breaths of salty air. She'd taught her husband to sing _The Burning of the Ships_ a while ago, knowing how well he loved a good sad song. Now, she listened to it with a certain relish, thinking that Brandon the Burner had had the right idea of it.

“Look!”, Elia interrupted him, and Rhaegar ended with an irritated chord on his harp. “No, _look_. It is Sunspear!”

That was good to hear. Lyanna followed her to the right side of the ship (or starboard, as everyone on this cursed vessel insisted on calling it), and was disappointed when she could only make out two distant towers. “The tall, thin one is the Spear Tower”, Elia explained breathlessly, “the other one the Tower of the Sun. Oberyn, have you seen?”

The prince jumped down the stairs from the forecastle, grinning. “For miles now, sister. Only a few more hours.”

At her disappointed expression, Elia placed a hand on Lyanna's back. “It will be over soon, truly.”

“And then”, Oberyn added, leaning against the railing, “we will all be in Dorne, which – and I say this as a well-travelled man – is the single most beautiful and glorious place in the known world.”

When they finally descended, the Prince of Dorne was awaiting them at the harbour. Doran Martell was ten years Elia's senior, shorter than Oberyn and with none of his brother's playful air. The resemblance to his siblings was obvious in his colouring and features, however.

Accompanied by the rest of House Martell, all knelt as soon as Rhaegar's feet touched the dock. It would be quite strange, Lyanna thought, to see her family do the same at Winterfell.

“Please rise”, the king said. Before any of the others had got to their feet, a young girl had sprung up with a cry of “Father!” and catapulted herself into Oberyn's arms with so much force he almost fell.

She had stood between two others, one older and one younger, and both watched the scene with disapproval.

Rhaegar ignored it, and many introductions followed. Prince Doran politely kissed her hand before hugging Elia tightly, his wife Mellario of Norvos went through the usual pleasantries. Then there was their oldest; Doran's heir Arianne – a six-year-old Lyanna could easily imagine as an older copy of Rhaenys. Her younger brother, Quentyn, was a babe and had remained in the castle.

And then, there were Oberyn's daughters. The eldest was named Obara; ten years old, tall, and dressed like a boy. The one who'd been so enthusiastic was named Nymeria; an impossibly pretty little girl at seven, her Valyrian ancestry obvious. After her, there was five-year-old Tyene, surprisingly fair and blonde. “Where have you left Sarella?”, Oberyn demanded from the oldest.

“In the castle”, she said, sounding less Dornish than Lyanna had expected. “I wanted to carry her, but Uncle Doran said there was no need, as you'd see her soon enough.”

Prince Oberyn huffed. “Forever trying to tame my impatience. Let us go, then, before she forgets my face entirely.”

The Old Palace was beautiful, and entirely alien to Lyanna. Slender towers, pale marble, large windows with flowing silk curtains, colourful mosaics, intricately carved wooden screens, and gilded accents everywhere – it was, in many ways, the opposite of Winterfell. Much smaller as well, which made her feel slightly less self-conscious.

Prince Doran's wife disappeared shortly after having met them, and Lyanna knew that their marriage was a rather complicated one. Her daughter, however, seemed thrilled by their arrival. The little princess decided to show them around, accompanied by Nymeria and Tyene. This mostly consisted of Arianne struggling to remember the specific story behind what she was trying to show them, and then arguing with her cousins until Elia gently corrected them.

They were then treated to a spread of Dornish delicacies and wine in a beautiful garden, even though the Martells insisted that it wasn't nearly at the height of its splendour. Prince Doran apparently found it cold, calling for braziers to be lit around them, which Lyanna thought was quite funny.

The girls had run off somewhere with Oberyn, and the Kingsguard they'd taken along had assumed their usual watchful stances next to Prince Doran's captain of the guards (even Prince Lewyn).

“I must say, Your Graces”, Doran Martell began, “the onslaught of news we have received from the capital in the last year or so has been nothing but astounding.”

“Not only to you.” Elia was nibbling at a caperberry. “Rest assured that none of us had expected any of this.”

Lyanna felt Prince Doran's measuring look on her, and smiled at him as she picked up a salted almond. “I am glad that it has ended so well”, he said, speaking slowly. “Safe for the horrid deaths of the previous king and queen, of course.”

“My mother's death was a great tragedy”, Rhaegar acknowledged. “But let us speak freely here, good prince – my father is not missed.”

Elia laid a hand on Rhaegar's arm. “You must understand, my love, that Doran is unable to speak freely, even in the company of family.”

Prince Doran gave her a look Lyanna didn't understand, to which Elia shrugged and leaned back on her couch. “There are no secrets here, brother, and there is no need for caution.”

His face barely changed, even as he nodded. “Of course. The events of the last year have left me so accustomed to weighing each word with care that I can barely tell my servants what I wish to have for supper.”

“We must apologise, my lord, for all the difficulties this entire situation has certainly caused you”, Rhaegar said. “It appears that Dorne is well under your control, however.”

“As much as it can ever be.” With a shrug, Prince Doran raised his cup. “The king is dead, long live the king and his queens. Our lords and ladies seeing Elia in a crown at the feast tonight should certainly help matters.”

Lyanna wondered just how much of their marriage would be spent needing to convince their subjects that she and Elia got along. Eyeing the food, she spied small pieces of meat in a sauce that looked appetising, but caught Elia's warning gaze before she could reach for them.

Too hot for her, then. Lyanna settled for a stuffed grape leaf instead.

“I quite like my crown”, Elia said, “so that will be no issue. On the morrow, we will ride out, perhaps to the Water Gardens. These two must see more of Dorne than Sunspear.”

As much as she could tell anything from Prince Doran's face, he appeared amused. “As my queen commands”, he said dryly. “Though I am uncertain as to whether you will be able to leave without all the girls following you. I hope they are not too much of a bother, Queen Lyanna.”

“Not at all”, she said. “The Red Keep is teeming with boys, yet they appear much more tame than your daughter and nieces. It will be a joy to see them grow.”

She didn't think the prince knew what to make of her answer, even though she'd meant every word.

_Elia_

She dressed for the feast in her old rooms. There was something deeply strange about having returned; moving in a space that belonged into another life. There was the balcony she'd often sat on to watch the sun rise over the Narrow Sea, and the wardrobe that bore only the gowns she'd liked least and thus left, and the bed where she'd lie and speak for hours with Ashara and the other ladies, trying to imagine what lives they'd lead.

It wasn't all nostalgia, however. Elia slipped into one of the most Dornish gowns she still owned, low-cut and made of scarlet silk, then covered herself in golden jewellery. She hoped Lyanna wouldn't feel too self-conscious in what she'd selected for her, but she wouldn't want her to feel like the odd one out.

Doran was announced by her uncle Lewyn's knock; a piece of protocol that wasn't strictly necessary, especially as she'd heard them speak outside her door for a while.

“That is a good crown”, he admitted. “Very Dornish. They will approve.”

Elia examined herself in a large Myrish mirror. “Do I not look exactly like that old portrait of Mother? You know, the one with the red dress.”

“She herself would have told you that you are more beautiful.” Doran was leaning on a table and she could feel him assessing her; studying her appearance for whichever messages the lords and ladies might believe to see in it. “You are right that there is a strong resemblance, however, which is also good. Mynara Martell come again, but ruling in King's Landing.”

“Well, half this jewellery was hers.” Elia turned around and paid him back in kind, noticing that while the orange and gold silk tunic he wore was immaculate, the first wrinkles were appearing by his eyes, his face had thinned, and he hadn't shaved today. “How do you feel, brother?”

The question seemed to surprise him. “Well.”

“_Well”_, she repeated. “That was the best you could come up with? You are exhausted, and you cannot tell me that this is simply due to the preparations for our arrival.”

He didn't say anything for a moment, then finally confessed: “Mellario might just hate me.”

That was foolish of her. “Why do you believe that?”

“She lives in the Water Gardens these days.” Doran played with a heavy bracelet around his wrist. “I asked her to return to Sunspear for this occasion, as my wife could hardly be absent for the king's visit. She refused, and I had to make it an order.”

“This is not the first time”, Elia pointed out. “I remember a similar episode before I was wed.”

“Yes.” He sighed deeply. “And then we reconciled, and everything was just as it had been during those first weeks in Norvos – hence, Quentyn. It did not last long. Be glad you did not wed for love.”

“I do love my husband”, she said, and Doran narrowed his eyes.

“You do, but is that not strange as well? Had it not been for your and Oberyn's letters, I would have expected you to arrive at Sunspear calling for vengeance.”

“Everything that happened did because it had to.” She tapped against her crown. “And now I am queen.”

Doran still seemed unconvinced. “I cannot quite grasp your counterpart, however. What does she mean by the things she says?”

Elia laughed, thinking that there weren't many people further away from each other than Lyanna and Doran. “She means what she says, brother mine. At least when speaking to those she trusts, and she trusts you because I do.”

“I see”, he said slowly. “Are you lovers?”

A strange thought. “No.”

He still appeared bewildered, but finally accepted the matter for what it was. “You have this familiarity that lovers often share, and I could imagine many of our lords and ladies assuming that you are. Which is also useful to our purpose.”

“Very well”, she said. “Let them believe what they would like.”

_Rhaegar_

“A word”, Oberyn said after having arrived late at the feast, taking him aside.

His good-brother looked much more serious than the merry guests; all the major Dornish lords and ladies. “What is it?”, Rhaegar asked.

“I -”, Oberyn shook his head. “Forgive me for saying this now and not waiting for a different opportunity, but I must make the decision immediately. I can no longer serve you as master of whisperers, Your Grace. My daughters need me here.”

Rhaegar wasn't surprised. “Then stay with them. Marwyn can succeed you – now that we are learning to use the glass candle, there is little need for spies.”

Now, Oberyn grinned. “The Citadel will hate that.”

An added benefit. “Well, the Citadel can -” He stopped, remembering they weren't alone as a man and a young lady neared them and their private conversation was clearly over.

“Ah, Lord Uller”, Oberyn said with the exact same grin, “it is time you were introduced to the king.”

“Your Grace.” The Lord of Hellholt. They exchanged the necessary formalities before the lady's identity was revealed. She was of an age with the both of them and beautiful in an unusual way, which was likely helped by the immodestly thin silk she wore. “My natural daughter”, Lord Uller explained. “Ellaria Sand.”

Only in Dorne would a lord's bastard be formally introduced to a king, Rhaegar thought, though her curtsey indicated that she had been raised at his keep. He felt no wish to either take or give offence, so he kissed her hand and politely ignored the suggestive gleam in her eyes.

Oberyn did not, lingering over Ellaria's hand for a heartbeat too long and sharing a lascivious smile with her as he let go. Rhaegar couldn't help but smirk at how obvious it all was. When he caught Lord Uller's gaze, it was clear that he was just as aware, and did not mind in the slightest.

Very well then. Oberyn would have someone to warm his bed tonight, Lord Uller had succeeded in raising his daughter's standing, and Ellaria was either an excellent mummer or truly drawn to the prince. Everybody won.

So had he, Rhaegar was told by a myriad of Dornish nobles throughout the night. Many of them weren't even drunk, but seemed to have no issue sharing their thoughts on certain aspects of his marriage.

In a way, it was difficult to blame them. His wives looked breathtaking, having somehow conspired behind his back to wear gowns entirely unsuited for the Red Keep: thin, tight around the upper body, and low-cut. Elia was in red and Lyanna in white, an Rhaegar found it difficult to keep his eyes off them even when they were somewhere far across the feast hall.

“Your Grace. I hope I am not unwelcome in interrupting your observations.” He turned his head to see a woman who was no longer young, yet still a famed beauty – Tarra Dayne of Starfall; mother to Arthur and Ashara. “You are never unwelcome, my lady”, he told her, only slightly exaggerating. “Have you spoken to Queen Lyanna yet?”

“There has not been an opportunity”, she replied, “and I should quite like for my king to introduce me.” He'd met the ruling Lady Dayne often throughout the years, first when Arthur had been given the white cloak, and the last time at his wedding. In between, she'd taken any opportunity to appear at court, and Rhaegar had been dimly aware of rumours that she was trying to broker a betrothal between him and Ashara, although Princess Mynara had put an end to that.

How differently things might have turned out. “In fact, Your Grace”, she said with a reproachful look, “I had quite hoped to see my children at this feast, and to meet my future good-son.”

“My lady will understand that I cannot take the entire court with me on every journey. Besides, Lord Eddard has duties to attend to.” She still pretended to be offended. “Will you travel to Winterfell for the wedding?”

Lady Dayne sighed dramatically, waving a servant towards her for wine. “Apparently so. I would never miss my daughter's wedding, even if it does mean travelling to such a frozen and savage place. I must know, Your Grace”, she held out her cup for the servant to fill it, “what is it about this Eddard Stark? Is he particularly comely? Strong? Does he make her laugh like no other?” Shaking her head in exasperation, she drank. “Is he plainly silent and thoughtful, which Ashara seems to like for some reason? Or was there some sort of incident at Harrenhal and now he believes he has dishonoured her?”

Rattling through the possibilities, Rhaegar could only agree with one proposed reason. “Lord Eddard is certainly quiet”, he offered. “I cannot speak for the rest, though I am certain there was no incident of the sort.”

“Strange”, Lady Tarra sighed. “A good outcome nonetheless, I suppose. Stark and Dayne – their children will be able to trace back their descent on both sides for a truly absurd amount of time.” Then she followed his eyes, which had involuntarily been drawn back to Elia and Lyanna while they were speaking to Lord Qorgyle. “Tell me, my king”, she said, “how does it work? Do you have them both at once, or take turns each night?”

If a man had asked this question, Rhaegar would have coldly reprimanded him. But this was the Lady Dayne, and he liked both her and those children of hers he knew, so he indulged her. “Turns”, he replied.

She looked disappointed. “Have both at once”, Lady Tarra recommended. “It is every man's dream, and here you are with two wives. Do not squander the opportunity.”

His patience wasn't inexhaustible. “That is quite enough”, the king said. “Come, my lady, I will introduce you to the queen you have not yet met.”

Later, Rhaegar felt himself tire of all the company and stepped out onto a terrace. Down here in Dorne, one could not tell it was winter at all. The air was mild, and like the Red Keep, the Old Palace provided a view over both the Narrow Sea and the houses beneath the castle, even if the shadow city was a far cry from King's Landing.

He heard someone's steps behind him. The Prince of Dorne leaned against the balustrade next to Rhaegar, not speaking.

He was fine with that. If Doran had anything to say, he'd do so eventually.

It took a while before he heard: “You are a patient man, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar had to smile. “Was this some sort of test, my lord?”

“Not exactly a test”, the prince explained. “But it is quite interesting to see what someone will say after a long enough silence.”

“That _is_ a test.” He looked at his good-brother; a wiser and more cautious Oberyn, or perhaps a more melancholic Elia. His own man, most likely. “I would recommend you no longer try to test me.”

Prince Doran hummed. “I recognise your kingly dislike for being questioned, Your Grace. I merely wish to understand the man my sister married.”

That was a legitimate wish to have, he thought. “I suppose I am as instinctively opposed to anyone attempting to trick me as you are instinctively suspicious”, he said. “But we have no reason to distrust each other. We share many loved ones, good prince.”

Doran bowed his head. “That is true.” They fell silent again, though not for nearly as long. “I do know everything”, the prince then said. “From both Elia and Oberyn, as you surely know.” Everything meaning truly that, Rhaegar understood – including the murders. He had no doubt that these secrets were safe with Doran Martell.

“I am aware”, he replied, thinking: _what of it?_

The prince looked at him. “You acted wisely.”

Then this was all an elaborate way for his good-brother to signal his approval. “It is good to hear that”, he said. “I do have quite a high opinion of you, my lord.”

Now, Doran truly bowed. “And I of you, my king. One question remains, however...”, he leaned forward. “What are the dragons like?”

Rhaegar laughed. “They defy description. You will either need to come to the capital, or wait until they are old enough to be flown across the Sea of Dorne.”

By whoever it was who'd eventually ride them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so – if anyone remembers, it says somewhere early on that Rhaegar has slept with “two or three ladies” before his marriage, though they're not specified because I really didn't want to introduce any additional characters.  
I have it vaguely in my head that the first was Tarra Dayne*, because a) Rhaegar has a scholarly approach to things and would go for a woman with a certain amount of experience b) she has a Dornish approach to things and wouldn't object to having a pretty young prince in her bed and c) Ashara's mum can't be anything but very attractive. To further that... headcanon I have of my own fic (??) Rhaegar also has never spoken of this to anyone, especially not Arthur. It's the one secret of his he doesn't know.  
I didn't actually put it into the story because it didn't feel necessary and it might've been slightly out of nowhere if it had said “[...] although Princess Mynara had put an end to that. She'd also been the first woman he'd ever bedded”. So, you know, I'm not saying that it necessarily did happen. But I think it probably somewhat explains the dynamic between them as I wrote it.
> 
> * who isn't a canon character at all, anyway, but House Dayne needed a ruling lord or lady


	42. 20/10/282

_Winterfell, the 10th moon of the year 282 AC_

_Elia_

After an entire moon of travel, they finally reached the looming grey walls of Winterfell.

It was enormous. Not Harrenhal, of course, but surely one of the greatest keeps Elia had ever seen, and intimidating in its austere style. She wouldn't have liked to come here as an enemy.

Through two sets of gates they went, ahorse and flanked by banners. Lyanna had absolutely refused to arrive in her old home in a wheelhouse, which meant that Elia had had to brave the cold northern winds and “light” snows for the last few hours as well. Good thing she'd taken Lyanna's advice and had a thick fur coat made for the occasion.

And it wasn't even winter anymore. Still, she could appreciate that thick furs fit into the northern landscape as well as flowing silk was suited to a Dornish feast, and quite enjoyed trying out a new fashion.

The Starks were waiting for them on the other side of two gates. Elia had met Lord Rickard at her wedding, and naturally remembered Brandon from Harrenhal as well. It wasn't difficult to guess at the identities of the two women standing beside them.

Lord and Lady Stark both smiled when they embraced Lyanna, though immediately after, their features turned much more guarded. Lady Lyarra didn't even grow slightly flustered when Rhaegar kissed her hand, which was somewhat unusual. “Now”, she said, looking him over in a way that made Elia's skin crawl in sympathy, “you are the man who stole away my daughter.”

“Mother!”, Lyanna protested, and the auburn-haired lady by Lord Brandon's side paled.

Rhaegar produced his most charming smile, causing Brandon's wife to look away with coloured cheeks even though she wasn't the target. “It appears so, my lady”, he said. “Though it should be noted that both Queen Lyanna and the gods asked for me to steal her.”

Lady Lyarra did have to slightly clear her throat after that, to Elia's glee. “We know that, of course. And I can see why she would.”

“_Mother”_, Lyanna said again, glaring. It was striking how well she fit into this frozen courtyard, hair and cloak all covered in snow. “You are speaking to the _king_.”

“I am speaking to my good-son”, the Lady of Winterfell declared, making Rhaegar chuckle. Elia met the eyes of Lord Rickard, who appeared bemused. “It is good to see you again, my lord”, she offered.

“And you, Your Grace”, he replied before his gaze darted behind her. She could see that Lord Eddard was helping Ashara off her horse, and did not envy her in the least.

“Sweet sister”, she heard Lord Brandon say, “Or need I call you queen?”

Lyanna hugged him. “Yes, you do.”

“If you insist. Your Graces”, Brandon pointed next to him, “I introduce to you my wife, the Lady Catelyn.”

She was even more comely than her sister, though this wasn't the first thing Elia had noticed when seeing her – because the future Lady of Winterfell was heavy with child.

“Dear good-sister”, Lyanna beamed before Catelyn could even dream of curtseying, kissing her cheeks. “It is wonderful to finally meet you, and to see your marriage so fruitful.”

Both Stark parents appeared slightly surprised at this display, and Elia had to resist the urge to wink at Lady Lyarra. Lyanna had learned a thing or two from her.

“It is good to meet you too, my queen”, Lady Catelyn said and now got to curtsey. “And my king, and my queen.”

She absolutely _was_ flustered when Rhaegar kissed her hand, though Lord Brandon did not even notice. He instead nudged Lyanna, pointing his chin at Lord Eddard and Ashara while they approached his parents. “I still cannot believe it.”

Ignoring that, Elia smiled at Lady Catelyn. “Your sister sends her regards, my lady. She is such wonderful company.” They barely ever spoke. “As to Lord Edmure, he must be somewhere -”

“_Cat!”_, Rhaegar's page shouted as he climbed out of the wheelhouse, darting towards her.

Next to them, Ashara was working her way through being introduced to her soon-to-be good-parents, and Elia could see her mother the Lady Dayne climb out of a carriage.

There was a lot happening at once, she thought, exchanging a smile with Rhaegar as they stood in the midsts of all those first meetings and reunions. “Where is Ben?”, Lyanna asked Lord Brandon.

“Coming”, he assured her. “He'll be here for the wedding.”

There was a small feast to welcome them to Winterfell, though the grander occasion would be the wedding taking place on the following day. Elia was relieved to discover that the castle was just as well-heated as Lyanna had said, even though she found it vast and confusing.

She'd been given chambers in the Guest House overlooking the godswood, as had Rhaegar, though Lyanna would be occupying her own old rooms, and it was her turn with their husband tonight. The Guest House itself was filled to the brim, since most of the northern nobility was present for the occasion – and many of the ladies who'd come to the Red Keep upon Rhaegar taking control were now returning to their homes. There was no more hope of them marrying Lord Eddard, after all, and only Lady Dacey would follow them back south.

When Elia decided it was time to retire from the feast, Lady Stark offered to show her to her chambers, citing Winterfell's size. “You must be cold, Your Grace”, she said as they crossed a courtyard leading to the Guest House.

“It is not what I am accustomed to”, Elia admitted, “though your daughter has been very helpful in giving me counsel regarding my wardrobe.”

Lady Lyarra hummed. The snow had been replaced by a vicious chill, turning the ground beneath Elia's boots to ice. Their soles were studded, however – another useful piece of advice Lyanna had provided. “And your royal husband is not in the habit of retiring at the same time as yourself, my queen?”

She was tempted to say something wholly inappropriate; the kind of thing that would illicit laughs and winks in Dorne, and scandal everywhere else. _My royal husband is in the habit of taking your daughter every other night._ Or: _I am aware they are still at the feast, but give it another hour and, knowing him, he'll have his face buried deep between her thighs. _Instead, she settled for: “The king has two queens, my lady. You are a woman wed. I ask you to merely imagine that you had to devise a system that accommodated Lord Stark's second wife, and you will find your answer there.”

Lady Lyarra stopped, forcing Elia to do the same. The courtyard was so large that a harsh wind blew even between Winterfell's high walls, but her furs were warm enough to withstand it. “Truth be told, Your Grace, I would not devise a system that accommodated my lord husband's second wife. I would ensure she was not in the position for long enough to make it necessary.”

Elia's first instinct was to make herself smile, but then she remembered that northerners seemed to prefer a more direct approach. So she took a step towards Lady Lyarra and looked her in the eyes. “I understand your apprehensions, Lady Stark, but I must ask you to consider that the king and Queen Lyanna wed more than a year ago, and I have never attempted anything of the sort.” She put a gloved hand on the other woman's arm. “You daughter is very dear to me. It makes me glad to see you as protective of her as you are, because it means we share a purpose.”

Lady Lyarra closely studied her face. There was nothing to feign, Elia reminded herself, wondering how one could make oneself show honesty when it had been real all along.

Then, quite suddenly, Lyarra patted her arm and kept walking. “That is good to hear. How is my grandson?”

Smiling to herself, Elia followed. “The way babes are. He sleeps and then he cries, though whenever he does the latter, the dragons will follow and amplify his call.” Him and Daenerys.

Lyarra Stark was the first person she'd met who didn't seem overly intrigued by the dragons. “And your own children, Queen Elia? I am not quite sure what to call them, in all honesty.”

Neither was she. “Well, they are the king's children as well, which would make them your...”, Elia hesitated. “Step-grandchildren?” She shrugged. “It makes no matter. The Prince of Dragonstone and his sister.” The future king and, potentially, queen – they still had much time to settle the question of who they'd wed. “Either way, they are well, thank you.”

They reached the Guest House. “Will you find the way to your chambers, Your Grace?”, Lady Lyarra asked. “Because I have a future good-daughter to intimidate.”

She did have to laugh at that. “Please do not be too harsh on her; the Lady Ashara is an old friend of mine.”

The Lady of Winterfell smirked. “We shall see.”

After bidding her goodnight, Elia walked up the stairs to her quarters; among the grandest Winterfell had to offer. The Guest House mostly consisted of bedchambers, unsurprisingly enough.

Truly, it was a very large castle. Elia was just reflecting on that when she heard something that piqued her interest: a moan.

That didn't have to mean anything in itself. A number of married couples had come to witness the royal visit and Eddard and Ashara's wedding, and – well, the further she went up this set of stairs, the surer she was that she heard the sounds of coupling. Which, again, didn't have to be scandalous in the least.

On the other hand, it _could_ be. Elia was close to her quarters, now, increasingly convinced that the sounds were coming from a room not far from her own. Which was strange after all, because all these rooms belonged to the unwed ladies who'd come up with them from King's Landing.

There was no question as to which door lay between her and a potentially salacious secret, considering the sounds emitting from it. A man and a woman in the heights of pleasure, she thought, trying to remember who resided in these chambers.

Well, whoever it was either hadn't locked her door, or taken out the key after doing so. Elia was able to peek through the key whole, and was more scandalised than she thought she'd be when she saw two people not even in the bed, but making love against the wall. The scandal lay in their identifies, however – because that was surely the very unwed Lady Barbrey Ryswell, her hands tangled in the hair and legs wrapped around the hips of Brandon Stark.

Fighting a surprised laugh, Elia hurried away from the door. And she'd thought that Lord Brandon had left the feast with his wife.

_Lyanna_

She felt more than a little reminded of the hours before her own wedding when they helped Ashara dress. Her soon-to-be good-sister emitted the same mixture of anxiety and excitement that Lyanna had felt back in Harrenhal.

“How did you find your wedding day, my lady?”, the bride asked while Lyanna closed bracelets around her wrists and Elia began fastening a Dornish veil and headdress into her hair. “It must have been quite different, being wed in sept.”

“It was a beautiful day”, Lady Catelyn replied. “I will not claim that I was not nervous, but my lord husband is most gallant, and he thankfully did remember all the vows.”

Lyanna wondered if she knew where he'd gone last night. When Elia had told her, she'd wanted find him and smack him, ideally multiple times. Perhaps that way, she would learn just how it was that Lady Barbrey had merely had to set foot in Winterfell and he'd run back to her.

“That will be no issue for me”, Lady Ashara said. “‘I take this man.’ Is that all I will need to say?”

Lyanna slid a ring onto her finger – a gift from herself, it was the white opal set in silver that she'd worn on her own wedding day. “That is all. Has it been decided who will give you away?”

At that, she could see Elia rolling her eyes, and Ashara sighed heavily. “Not quite yet, I fear. Forgive me, Your Grace, but it seems like a rather senseless discussion.”

“It is”, she agreed, watching Elia cover the back of Ashara's head with the translucent lilac veil. “The North loves its traditions even when pointless.”

The Daynes were of the opinion that, considering she was the head of the House and Ashara's liege, the part should fall to Lady Dayne. Lyanna's own family thought it ought to be Ser Arthur, him being a man. “It seems I must speak to my lord father and brothers, then. And my lady mother, I presume.” She looked to Lady Catelyn, who seemed to be watching their conversation very carefully. “Has she given you much trouble, my lady?”

Her answer showed exactly the kind of southron diplomacy that would rile her mother up. “The Lady Lyarra is most kind, and cares deeply about protecting her own, as we all do.”

Elia chuckled and Ashara looked uneasy. Lyanna had to admit that being one of her good-sisters had to be mildly terrifying at times, although: “She will care just as much about the child you bear, if that is any consolation.”

Lady Catelyn smiled serenely. “Thank you, my queen, though there is no need for consolation.” There might have been a sardonic edge to her voice.

“From what we have heard”, Elia said, making Ashara move her head to see if all was in place, “this could have all gone quite differently for you, my lady. Was there not a duel for your hand?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Petyr, my lord father's ward. I could not possibly know how the idea entered his mind, foolish as it was. He is half my lord husband's size and has never been good with a sword.”

At the very least, it didn't sound like she regretted the outcome. Lyanna gazed out the window and stood. “I shall see if I can do anything about the ceremony”, she announced, curious to see how her family might react to that.

Conveniently enough, they were all in Ned's rooms, presumably to watch him pace. Lyanna was ready to begin an argument as soon as she entered, but was caught off guard when she saw who was there.

“Ben!” He looked funny in all black, and had grown much, taller than he used to be and with a full beard. Lyanna hugged him, and noticed his smile was still the same. “Lya”, he replied, then bowed and corrected himself. “_Queen_ Lya, I mean. You look good.”

“Thank you. You look like a man grown, which is frankly disturbing.” He grinned, and she turned to the rest of them – Father, Mother, Bran, Ned. There was no use in beating around the bush. “Why exactly is it that Lady Dayne cannot give her daughter away?”

Bran groaned, her father sighed, and her mother shot Ned a rather chilling look. “The bride is given away by her most senior male relative”, Lord Rickard said.

“The bride is given away by the head of her House”, Lyanna replied, crossing her arms. “Or a representative of his or her choosing. Her, in this case, because Lady Tarra rules Starfall in her own right. What do you think, Ned?”

He was clearly very uncomfortable to even have this argument; sounding tired when he said: “I will not begin my marriage by siding against my wife.”

“That is wise.” Lyanna glared at her father. “And this is pointless. Who will take offence at Lady Dayne getting her wish? The gods will not, and further, she has every right to decide how her own daughter should be wed.”

She hadn't annoyed him this much since she'd read the stag's entrails. “Lady Dayne is the head of her House”, he acknowledged, “and I am the head of ours, as well as the lord of this castle and Warden of the North. I will decide how a wedding in my own keep is to take place.”

Lyanna felt she had two options. She could, if she so chose, point out that she outranked him now, though that might also amount to undue interferrence.

Instead, she reached into the folds of her gown and threw him the pouch therein. “Let us ask the gods. You draw a rune, and I another.”

“That is not quite the right way to do this”, her mother cut in. “If you truly want for the gods to decide it, you must go to the godswood and perhaps sacrifice a small animal -”

“_Or”_, Bran interrupted, “they could simply settle this matter now and be done with it.”

Her father, meanwhile, was opening the pouch. “Lyanna”, he said, “the gods may have chosen you for a purpose, but that does not necessarily mean they agree with you on all occasions.” Then he drew a rune, looked at it, and his jaw clenched.

He tossed the pouch back to her. “You are right”, she admitted, feeling the contents. “But I believe I understand them quite well.” Lyanna drew, then turned the piece of bone for all to see. _“Jedryk.”_ A harvest, result, or reward.

“You will be the end of me, child.” Lord Rickard walked over to her and handed her _Korrag_; danger, discord, or enmity. Standing directly before her, he looked down onto her face. “Are you as quarrelsome with that kingly husband of yours?”

“Of course”, she grinned, and thought that somewhere behind his perpetually solemn expression, there might have been a hint of of pride.

Father sighed once more. “It appears the gods have spoken -”

“Truly”, Lady Lyarra said, “this was hardly the proper -”

Lord Rickard shut her up with a look. “I will not risk it. Let the Daynes be as Dornish as they want, then.” With a look at Ned, he made for the door. “Your marriage will be an interesting one.”

It was, in fact, time to leave. Lyanna wondered if this discussion had made Ben glad that he would never need to worry about a wedding, but Bran pulled her aside before she could ask.

“It is somewhat incredible”, he said with a smile, “that motherhood has not made you any less of a brat.” Ben and Ned left the room, their mother just behind them.

Lyanna stood on her toes and whispered in his ear. “I find it incredible that marriage has not made you any less of a lecher.”

She walked out before he could reply. Lyanna had enough of these arguments for the day, but she'd wanted him to know that he'd been less than subtle.

_Rhaegar_

The wedding had been a beautiful affair. Bride and groom were clearly happy, Winterfell's godswood would have given any occasion an air of hallowed gravity, and Lady Ashara's beauty made the northern lords forget to grumble about Lord Eddard's choice of wife.

The feast was cheerful, the bedding relatively restrained as all participants were aware of Arthur's presence. Rhaegar was looking forward to calling it a night afterwards, as the next day would mark the start of the northern preparations for the Long Night, and he did not want to come into it half dead.

His good-father had other ideas, however, as he was ushered into Lord Rickard's solar with him, Brandon, and a large pitcher of dark ale.

“What a beauty. I can only hope that Ned knows what to do with her -”

“Brandon.” Lord Stark looked much like Lyanna when she was annoyed. “The Lady Ashara is your good-sister now.”

Shrugging, Lord Brandon filled all their cups. “What did you think, Your Grace?”

“I thought that I cannot stand beddings.” Lyanna had recommended honesty when dealing with her family.

Lord Rickard took a slow sip of his ale. Both Stark parents had a gift for unnerving gazes, Rhaegar thought, though his own wasn't too shabby either. “Do beddings offend the royal sense of dignity?”

“Yes.” He had no taste for the base lewdness on display.

“To be fair”, Lord Brandon exclaimed, “I have never seen anyone endure it in such a dignified manner as Your Grace did during your first wedding.”

Rhaegar remembered it well enough, and just how annoyed he'd been. “I find that a look of regal disdain can serve to overshadow much awkwardness.”

Brandon laughed at that, though Lord Rickard didn't. “Does Lyanna appreciate your wit?”

This was enough, he decided. These two were at least attempting to somehow test or goad him – for all the consequences of his two weddings that he had considered, he'd never thought about what it would mean to have marriage ties to so many proud and suspicious men. “Queen Lyanna appreciates a great deal of things about me. Is it not to my lord's liking?”

“My king may speak whichever way he chooses”, Lord Stark had to reply. Lord Brandon, quite drunk, leaned towards Rhaegar and said: “There's something I've been wondering about. We heard you almost died.”

“Almost”, he replied, and Brandon nodded slowly while staring into his ale. “And Lya almost died as well, when she birthed your boy.”

Of course they'd know; she had to have at least told her mother a small part of it. “Almost”, Rhaegar said again. “Rest assured that this will not repeat itself. I have all the children I need, and I will not subject either of my wives to the ordeal of childbirth again.”

“How did she survive?”, Lord Rickard asked. “It happens often enough, and maesters are usually powerless to stop it, or to ensure that both mother and child live.”

The Starks were likely to understand this, he thought, pulling up his left sleeve. On top of the fine scars years of blood magic had left on his arm was a much thicker and uglier one, where the cut had needed stitches and some godly support before it had healed completely. “Your gods are not the only ones that can be plied with blood.”

His good-father's eyes rested on his arm for a long time, and then went to his face. “I should have remembered that would know about our gods and blood, Your Grace. They once showed me a vision of you and Lyanna in a different godswood – where she cut the throat of an old man while you held his head in place.”

Ah, well. There was no point in lying, at least not completely. “Grand Maester Pycelle”, he replied calmly, rolling his sleeve back up. “He had much to do with my royal father's attempts to have me killed, especially the one that came so close to succeeding. Lyanna was quite angry.”

“A beheading would have seemed more appropriate”, Lord Stark said. “Carried out by yourself, not your wife.”

Rhaegar didn't appreciate a lord telling him how to undertake his own executions. “The other eight to die that night were beheaded by me.” He pulled back his hair and folded down his collar, revealing the worst scar he had. “And a cut throat appeared _highly_ appropriate under the circumstances.”

Making his way back to the Guest House, he was surprised to see Arthur by the entrance to the godswood, his white cloak and armour illuminated by the full moon above. Rhaegar approached him with a questioning gesture.

“They are both in there”, Arthur said. “Do not ask me why, though they were looking for you earlier.”

“I was speaking to Lord Stark and Brandon.” Rhaegar squinted past the gate, though he knew that his wives would likely be at the heart tree far into the godswood. “I presume they wanted me to prove my worth to them somehow. I often think my looks might make it difficult for these broad, beardy men to take me seriously as king.”

Arthur snorted. “Only at first glance. Did you show your scar?”

“Of course. It is a useful shortcut.” Perhaps he should forego the high collars more often.

“Spar with them tomorrow”, Arthur recommended. “These northerners just need to be amicably knocked into the dirt, and that will settle it in full.”

That was a good point. “Very well. I will see what my wives are doing – and you should get some sleep. There is little danger for you to guard us from here.”

He went through the gate, the moonlight helping him on his path. During the ceremony, the godswood had been lit by carefully placed torches, but they had all burned out.

As he'd predicted, he found Elia and Lyanna at the heart tree, sitting cross-legged on the roots and laughing about something, pewter cups and a fallen-over jug next to them. “There you are”, Elia called out as he stepped onto the clearing and could see that both had flowers in their laps. “We are making a crown”, she explained.

Rhaegar laughed while he walked around the pond. “You are both drunk.”

“It is my brother's wedding”, Lyanna argued. Both shuffled aside and she dragged on his cloak until he sat between them. “Are you _not_ drunk?”

“Much less than you.” Her cheeks were red, even in the moonlight.

Elia sighed dramatically. “You can be such a bore. Wait, give that to me.” She took a length of tightly-bound flowers from Lyanna's lap, explaining: “We went to the glass garden. They have everything – dragon's breath, moonbloom, and even winter roses.”

He smiled at the memory of Harrenhal. “So you two have just been drunkenly running through Winterfell, and plucked flowers from the glass garden?”

“As if anyone would stop me”, Lyanna said. “And then we came here because I wanted to show _both_ of you where it had all begun, without all the wedding guests, but you were nowhere to be found.”

“I was with your father and brother, though I'd have preferred to join your flower-stealing adventure.”

Elia was deftly combining the two halves of their colourful crown. “Well, you are here now. This is the place where Lyanna had the first vision, years before either you or I ever knew what would happen.”

“And then I found myself in there”, she added, pointing at the pond before them. “It was a bit of a shock, overall.”

“I can imagine.” Lyanna took his hand in hers and shifted so she could lean against him.

Elia grinned at Rhaegar from the other side. “A crown for a king”, she announced, and placed the flowers atop his hair. “You look prettier in it than either of us would, anyway.”

“You are very wrong.” He pulled her close with his free arm, feeling warm despite the chill in the air. Rhaegar kissed Elia's cheek and then Lyanna's, and watched as a crow fluttered down from the weirwood and landed by the pond.

He was content to just sit here for a moment and enjoy the silence, but then thought that it had grown rather _too_ quiet. “Do not fall asleep”, he said at both of them. “It is far too cold out here.”

“My gods would never let us freeze”, Lyanna muttered, and Elia nodded with her head on his shoulder. Rhaegar sighed, thinking that once he could bring himself to rise, he'd need to make sure they both slept within the much warmer walls of the castle.

It was difficult, however. He was very comfortable, having both his queens in his arms was lovely, and waking them from their slumber was unlikely to go down well.

He, too, must have dozed off at some point, because the moon was in a different position as Rhaegar woke, gasping. He was drenched in cold sweat and his heart beat too quickly in his chest.

“Show me your eyes”, he told both his wives, who were blinking sleepily. “_Show_ me”, he repeated, so afraid. He found black and grey, and sank back against the tree with heavy breaths.

In his dreams, the only eyes he'd seen had been of a cold, terrifying blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this, we bid goodbye to Rhaegar, Elia, and Lyanna – at least as POVs. Seventeen years later and even further north: [the sequel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24109588/chapters/58038280)


End file.
